


Miscalculation and Reformation

by dallaluna



Category: Regency Love (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, POV Alternating, Slow Burn, Temporarily Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-01
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 61,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27332413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dallaluna/pseuds/dallaluna
Summary: Lord Sutton chooses to confess his feelings for the protagonist to James, rather than to the protagonist herself.  Events unfold in a much different manner to what he, or anyone, expected.  Alternating POV between Lord Sutton and the Protagonist (Elinor Hartwell).
Relationships: Protagonist/Lord Aubrey Sutton
Comments: 19
Kudos: 14





	1. Sutton I

* * *

Sutton I

* * *

Romantic feelings, Lord Sutton decided, were a terrible inconvenience.

His friendship with James Graham had never been put to such a difficult test before the unassuming Elinor Hartwell entered their lives. He had always thought it self-indulgent when one declared that one could not bear to go on as things were, yet here he was, about to burden his best friend on the eve of the happiest day of his life, simply because he could not stand to continue with this insufferable weight upon him.

Lord Sutton had entertained the idea of telling Miss Hartwell instead. James would offer to give Miss Hartwell up for his sake; he was certain Miss Hartwell would feel no such duty. Although some condescension was appropriate in light of the difference in their stations, the contempt he had shown her was well beyond that, and certainly beyond what she deserved. 

But Lord Sutton could not bring himself to face her. The possibility of her responding to such an admission with disgust and disdain was insupportable. In the end, he decided it would be best for her never to know. 

So he waited for James in the sitting room at Birkenbridge Manor for what felt like an eternity, practicing the conversation in his mind. He would speak as quickly and dispassionately as possible, and would quit as soon as he had spoken his piece. He would insist that he wished for nothing more than James’ understanding.

James returned what seemed like hours later. He had a bouquet of wildflowers in his hand and a faint smile on his face, as if he were remembering some particularly charming encounter with Miss Hartwell. It took him a moment to realize that Lord Sutton was present, and when he did he appeared bemused.

“Aubrey, whatever are you doing here? I thought you had returned to your estate.”

“I must speak to you.” Sutton’s tone was more urgent than he had intended it to be. In truth, the waiting had left his nerves even more tightly wound.

“I would speak to you, that is, if you have no other obligations at present.”

“Of course. I apologise if you have been waiting for me long — I was gathering flowers for Miss Hartwell.”

Lord Sutton’s chest grew tight. What he intended to do was insufferable folly. He had told himself, over and over, that he wanted nothing but James’ happiness.

“You intend to propose tomorrow?” he asked, careful to keep his tone neutral.

James gave a broad, dimpled smile and beamed down at the flowers he held. “Yes, I think so.”

Despite his best efforts, Lord Sutton grimaced. The expression did not escape Mr. Graham’s notice. His smile fell. 

“I thought you had overcome your objections to Elinor. You know how dear she is to me. I understand that you two may never be friends, but I ask that you—”

“I have no reservations about your marriage to Miss Hartwell. I must admit now that my objections and behaviour towards Miss Hartwell has had less to do with her than _me_.” 

James’ brow furrowed at this. This was the moment that Sutton ought to make his explanation, but he was unable to find the words. 

Instead, he scoffed. “Of course, she was not a sensible choice for a soldier with no fortune of his own, though that concern has been alleviated by your newfound prosperity.”

James shook his head. “You need not remind me of Miss Hartwell’s situation, Aubrey. She is not penniless, though I admit she would not tempt a fortune hunter. But you know I have always intended to marry for love.”

“You always have been sentimental,” Sutton replied dryly. 

Of course, that was why he had been drawn to James in the first place. The boy’s kind and open nature was the opposite of all he had ever known. James’ friendship had changed his life, and had made him the passably decent man he was. 

Yet he was about to burden James, and cast a shadow over his well-deserved happiness. How could he?

“I apologise. What I meant to say is of no consequence. I depart in the morning. I wish you the best of luck with Miss Hartwell tomorrow.”

He offered his hand for an encouraging shake, and as a gesture of farewell. James regarded it skeptically. 

“Come now, Aubrey, I have never known you to shy away from anything. What was your purpose in coming here?”

Sutton let his hand fall to his side. He supposed it would have to come out eventually. Certainly it was better now, before it further poisoned their friendship.

“I have tried in vain to make sense of it, and I cannot. She is a woman who would never have caught my attention if not for the fact that she had caught _yours_. I have wondered if my feelings are born of some perverse selfishness in my nature—if I am merely imagining them because I cannot bear to see you have something that I cannot. I do not believe it is so. To speak plainly, I… I have feelings for Miss Hartwell.”

He could not bring himself to meet James’ eye.

“Feelings? You mean… you are in love _with Elinor_? How can that be? You despise her!”

Lord Sutton winced. ‘Love’ was a word that he had tried to keep from his own thoughts—and was certainly not one he could bring himself to speak. 

“I do not— I have tried to suppress my feelings. I have treated her with discourtesy so that she would be repelled by me, and in the hopes that she would avoid my company, or treat _me_ in a manner that would dispel my admiration for her. I thought that, in time, I might overcome the unfortunate and unwelcome feelings I bore her. Those efforts have been… unsuccessful. I tell you all this only because I know you have wondered at my conduct, and have perhaps resented me for my treatment of her. I will not behave cruelly towards her in the future, but I must at least behave coldly, and continue to hold her at a distance.”

Sutton exhaled. It was a relief to have disclosed his secret at last, though he could not say he felt much improved.

“How long have you felt this way?” James asked. 

_Since the moment I met her,_ he nearly replied, but that was not quite true. He had felt inexplicably drawn to her from the first, when she chastised him for his discourtesy, but it had taken some time for those feelings to materialize into something more.

“Since shortly after I met her. Perhaps a matter of weeks.”

“I hardly know what to say,” James replied, after a painfully long silence. He sat down with a dazed expression, his flowers falling to the ground. 

Sutton knelt to pick them up (a gesture he would not have undertaken under any circumstance other than faced at present), and set them on the bench beside James. There was a terrible tightness in his throat, and he straightened himself with difficulty. 

“You are my best, most steadfast friend, James—perhaps my only true friend. I concealed these feelings because I knew that if you learned of them, you would offer to give her up. I feared I would be too selfish not to ask it of you. But I wish for you to be happy, and I see that she is your happiness. Let this change nothing, but your understanding of why I have acted as I have.”

“But is she not also your happiness?” James asked, his expression painfully earnest.

“Don’t be preposterous. This is an unfortunate attachment, nothing more.”

“I cannot believe you would see her that way if I were not an impediment!” James cried.

“To call you an impediment would be to imply that I would ever consider pursuing _her_ . Miss Hartwell has her charms, perhaps, but she would not be a suitable match— _if_ I had any intention of marrying, which I do not. I do not want her, James, and I know she could not possibly want anything to do with me after the way I have behaved towards her. If anyone is the impediment, it is I, and I do not wish to be. I—I _refuse_ to be. You must ask her to marry you as you intended.”

“Is that an order?” James asked, smiling weakly. “How can I? She deserves to know your true feelings. If she knew that you loved her, she might—”

That ‘might’ had tormented Sutton, and he could not stand to speak of it now.

“Might _what_ ? Do you believe Miss Hartwell would abandon you in favor of my wealth and title? It would not be for love of _me_ , certainly. I believe her incapable of such mercenary conduct—and if she were not, I would despise her for it.”

“No, of course she would not. But if she knew you as you _truly_ are...” James looked at the flowers forlornly. “Aubrey, how can I possibly ask her to marry me, knowing that you feel as you do?”

“Because I insist upon it. I will spend a season in London, indulge in my usual distractions, and these absurd feelings will become a distant memory.” 

“You have never loved any of those women.”

Sutton could not deny that. Of course, love was not what he sought from them. 

“Promise me that you will not allow this to interfere in your plans. If not for my sake, then for Miss Hartwell’s.”

James grimaced. “You are right.”

“Very well,” Sutton replied. “I trust you will send word of the happy news to me. Farewell.”

Sutton turned and left the room, feeling that a weight had been lifted, but a terrible hollowness inside.


	2. Elinor I

* * *

Elinor I

* * *

Mr. Graham had not asked to speak to Mama. As they walked along the forest path near her house, Elinor could not help but ponder what that meant. Would today not be the day? He had worn such a curious look on his face when he invited her to join him; she had thought that it was nerves — perhaps not. 

Elinor supposed she herself should feel more nervous, but in truth she just felt impatient. Everyone seemed to be whispering about when it would happen. She was beginning to wonder whether it ever  _ would _ . 

Elinor stole a glance up at Mr. Graham, hoping to surmise his thoughts. Usually on their walks he could scarcely keep a smile at bay. Today he seemed distant and cheerless, so unlike his usual self. Elinor feared that this walk may have a purpose entirely unlike the one she had anticipated.

“Has something happened, Mr. Graham?” she asked at last. “I do not think you have ever gone this long without sharing an amusing anecdote, or inquiring after my mother. I hope all is well?”

He bowed his head apologetically. “I was lost in my thoughts — do forgive me.”

“Of course. I do not mean to chide. You know I am not one to insist on empty courtesies. But nothing is amiss?”

He hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. “No, nothing. Nothing at all.”

Elinor smiled good-naturedly, though his response did little to allay her concerns.

Then, abruptly, Mr. Graham turned to her and took her hands into his.

“Miss Hartwell… dearest Miss Hartwell…”

Elinor nodded, her face growing warm.

“You must know my feelings. I adored you from almost the moment I met you, and every day spent with you has only given me further cause to admire and love you. I—forgive me, I know it is… perhaps strange that I should ask, but for reasons I cannot disclose, I  _ must _ … Miss Hartwell, do you love me?”

Elinor felt her amiable expression fall away. She had expected a proposal, and was convinced that accepting it was the right thing to do—not only because of her mother’s urging, but because she cared for James deeply, and could think of no other man in her acquaintance she liked half so well, or with whom she would rather spend her life. She had considered whether she loved him, and hoped that she did — or that she would. She firmly believed that she  _ would _ , but it had never seemed a necessity to her that she must love who she married. She could never marry one whom she did not esteem, of course, but love had always been something she regarded as an aspiration, not a necessity. 

She had suspected that James might not feel entirely the same, but never expected that he would ask so plainly before asking for her hand. 

Elinor desperately wanted to give him the answer he desired. She knew her mother, were she here, would have urged her to answer in the affirmative. ‘It is not far from the truth, is it?’ she might say. ‘And there is your future to think of.’

But there was also Mr. Graham to think of: sweet, earnest Mr. Graham, who deserved honesty—and a reply. 

“I am sorry, Mr. Graham, for my silence, I simply find myself struggling to find the words…”

He released her hands and stepped away, seemingly embarrassed. “I apologise, but I must know before I ask for your hand.”

“You know that I am exceedingly fond of you,” Elinor replied, no less sheepishly. “You are the kindest of men, and a most loyal friend to all around you, and never fail to make me smile. I believe that I would be very happy if we were to—to—marry.”

It felt strange to speak of what married life might be like with a man who had yet to propose, but she felt that she must offer him some encouragement. What else could she say? ‘And I hope to love you very soon’? 

James’ hopeful expression dimmed. Elinor felt that she must be the most miserable, cold-hearted wretch in all of England, not to love such a man as Mr. Graham, or at least not to feel it resolutely. How she despised herself for not knowing her own heart!

“I have never been in love before,” she added. “If I cannot say with certainty that I love you, I do know that I care for you deeply, that I have great affection for you, that I prefer your company above all others’—”

“Cannot say with certainty,” he repeated slowly. “I see.”

“I never intended to deceive you, Mr. Graham,” Elinor cried. “Truly, I did not. I am very sorry if you feel that I have.” 

“Miss Hartwell, I beg you, do not apologise. You have always been forthcoming with me. Propriety generally does not allow a man to inquire after, or a woman to volunteer, such feelings. I know that your affection for me is genuine, and I appreciate it, but it…”

It was not enough. 

Some part of Elinor wished that she had not been honest, for she could hardly fathom losing Mr. Graham now. He had given her every encouragement, and everyone believed that they would marry. She, too, had staked her hopes on him. Elinor tried very hard not to care about gossip, but she knew that as soon as Mrs. Norris learned that he had abandoned his suit for her hand, her name would be on the lips of everyone in town in no time at all. 

And of course, it was not only what others would think that troubled her (though she could not help but think of such things, as her mother’s future comfort and her own rested on her shoulders). She would miss their walks and conversations, his boundless enthusiasm for her stories and opinions, his warmth, and his dimpled smile…

“Perhaps, with some time, I could give you a more satisfactory answer.” This was not a lie, or at least did not feel like one. If it was a matter of will (though she suspected it was not), Elinor would certainly come to love him. 

He took her hands again, this time with a pained, but sympathetic expression. “My dear, dear Miss Hartwell. If I believed that time would make a difference, I would wait as long as you asked. But I… I cannot imagine it will. We have known one another for months now, and have spent a great deal of time in one another’s company—sufficient time, I should think, to determine whether what you feel for me is merely admiration or love.”

“Surely love is not always like in  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . Surely there is love that comes steadily, with time,” she insisted, her voice breaking. 

“But we have had time. Sutton had never been in love before, yet even he knew, in a matter of weeks, or perhaps even the first moment—” Mr. Graham stopped abruptly and lowered his eyes. “Forgive me. He has nothing to do with this.”

Elinor withdrew her hands. She would not have imagined that he  _ had _ , if not for that slip. But of course this was Lord Sutton’s doing! He had somehow convinced Mr. Graham that she cared nothing for him, only for his newfound prosperity. 

She very nearly demanded to know what Lord Sutton had said, before realising that it did not matter. Whatever his motive for stoking James’ doubts, he had forced the truth into the open, and it could not be overlooked.

“I suppose this is an end, then,” Elinor said, her throat tightening. She felt too astonished to weep. 

“Miss Hartwell, forgive me. I never intended to cause you pain, or to injure you in any way. If not for circumstances that I am not at liberty to discuss, I would have proposed today without ever thinking to ask such a question. Perhaps it is for the best that I asked it, though. As much as your esteem and fondness mean to me, I think I would have been devastated to realise, years from now, or perhaps even sooner, that you do not and could never love me as I love you. And you, Miss Hartwell, deserve not only to be loved, but to  _ love _ .”

Elinor nodded dumbly at this. It was no use to point out to Mr. Graham that her chances of finding  _ any _ match, much less a love match, were diminished now. She had little wealth to recommend her, and now her reputation was tarnished. She would not dream of saying anything of the kind, however; he might feel compelled to propose, despite his conviction that it would not bring either happiness. And she would not deny him that, when it would be a sin against nature to stamp the happiness out of such a man as he. 

“You will not have to see me again. I have given up my commission, and will leave for my estate tomorrow.” Mr. Graham said this as if it was a kindness. Perhaps it was, but it felt terribly cruel in that moment.

“I will be sorry not to see you again,” she said quietly, unable to meet his eye. “I do not think I will ever meet your equal.”

The shock had abated, and her eyes filled with tears. She forced herself to look at him one final time.

Emotion was plain in Mr. Graham’s face. “Oh, I am certain that you shall. But I, too, will be sorry not to see you again, my dear, sweet Elinor!”

He took her hands in his again and lifted them to his lips. Without another word, he turned and left.


	3. Sutton II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not read Lady Lavender, so forgive any differences there may be in the names of Sutton's and James' estates. I am also not British, so please excuse any American spellings that may have slipped through.

* * *

Sutton II

* * *

Lord Sutton spent five listless days on his estate, Wealdworth, following his conversation with James. There was business to attend to, though certainly not enough to occupy all waking hours, for he had an able steward, Mr. Barnes, who was more than capable of overseeing matters during Sutton’s frequent absences. He reviewed Mr. Barnes’ proposals for new undertakings on his holdings, and found them all to be sensible. Begrudgingly, he agreed to fund a number of repairs to the parsonage, though he ill-liked the peevish little clergyman who lived there. Yet he would never have it said that he was tight-fisted, as his father had been. 

He tried reading, but could not keep his mind focused on the page, and was so consumed by his thoughts when riding that he nearly lamed his best horse by running it into a small ditch. The tragedy was averted only at the last possible moment, and with considerable cursing. Sutton generally did not carouse when at Wealdworth — he was content to be considered a libertine when in Town, but preferred to comport himself with some measure of dignity when at his own estate. Nor did he have the heart for it. Indeed, Sutton grew so desperate for a diversion that he attended Sunday service, though he realised he would sooner be driven mad by thoughts of Miss Hartwell than endure Mr. Kimball’s senseless and unending sermon. 

When no news came from James for a day, and then two, Sutton assumed it was because his friend was reveling in his good fortune. No doubt Mrs. Hartwell was already beginning wedding preparations, and would not give him a moment’s peace. And then Sutton could not help but imagine Elinor, beaming with joy while her mother bustled about, and the thought made him so miserable that he could not help but laugh bitterly at what a pitiful creature he had become. When a third day passed without word, Sutton began to fear that he had destroyed his friendship after all. 

Two days later, Sutton learned from his housekeeper that James had returned to his own nearby estate without sending word or calling. A cold anger set upon him. Did James believe him so weak that he could not bear to hear news that he fully anticipated, and for which he had been steeling himself for many long weeks? And what right had James to bear a grudge against _him_? James would be happy. Perhaps it would be shadowed by guilt and unease, but Sutton had done everything in his power to prevent that. No doubt James blamed him for saying anything at all, but James would have blamed him no less if he continued to believe that Sutton resented his bride. There was no possible way their friendship could have emerged from this crucible unaltered, yet James had the audacity—!

He stewed in this anger for the remainder of the day, but had sense enough not to ride over to see James in this state. Like his mother, Sutton was capable of terrible cruelty when his emotions were piqued. Very little was capable of agitating him, so he rarely had cause to fear that he would lose mastery over himself. Yet he had never forgotten the boyhood argument in which he had so wounded James that he would not speak to Sutton for a fortnight. 

When Sutton awoke the following morning, he felt himself once again. His reaction had been foolish. It was not in James' nature to be resentful. In all likelihood, he feared that his joy — which, like a child, he was incapable of hiding — would pain Sutton. If Sutton greeted the news steadily and with easy words of congratulation, all would be well.

He rode over soon after breakfast. Strathbourne House was not a grand estate like Wealdworth, and was in a state of disrepair after years of neglect. Sutton had sent Mr. Barnes to assess whether the staff were, in part, to blame for the state of things, but it seemed that James’ brother Francis preferred to spend his money at the card table and was loath to even pay the few loyal servants who had remained. With Mr. Barnes’ assistance, additional servants were hired on and repairs were already underway. Sutton had faith that Strathbourne would soon be a comfortable and respectable home for his friend.

Mrs. Mullins, the housekeeper at Strathbourne House from time immemorial, appeared at the door before Sutton had even handed his reins to the groom. 

“It is very good of you to come, my lord,” said she, wringing her hands. 

Sutton faltered when he saw her careworn expression. “What is it?”

Mrs. Mullins glanced over her shoulder before answering in a low voice. “You know that I am no gossip, my lord. Normally I would not presume to speak of matters concerning my master — even the last, who was such a disappointment! Oh, you cannot begin to imagine what we endured at his hand — his wife, too, who was so haughty when she first came — the poor thing! She came to regret her choice.”

“Indeed, Mrs. Mullins,” he replied shortly. “I have no more desire to gossip than do you. I am James’ oldest friend, and his concerns are my own, so speak. Is he unwell?”

Mrs. Mullins was well-meaning, and was by all accounts an able housekeeper, but she insufferably long-winded, and Sutton could see he would have to endure more of her prattle before he would discover anything of consequence. 

“Oh, but he was so full of cheer when last he came! And so handsome — but then he always was, even as a young lad! Even more handsome than _you_ , my lord — you will forgive my saying so, for no doubt there are some who would prefer your colouring to his, and of course you are taller —”

He would not chide this woman whom he had known since childhood for speaking to him in such a manner, but his patience was wearing thin.

“Mrs. Mullins, is James well or unwell? A simple answer will suffice.”

“I do believe something is afoot, my lord, though he will not say. He will eat only a little, and is ever so quiet! He, who was never one to keep to himself—”

“I would see him,” replied Sutton. “Now, if you please.”

Mrs. Mullins obeyed with mercifully few words, and showed Sutton to James’ study. His friend looked up in surprise when she opened the door to announce his presence. The skin under his eyes was dark and it appeared that he had not shaven in days. His shirt, though clean, was thoroughly wrinkled.

Sutton could not imagine James had descended into such a state of disarray on _his_ account.

After overcoming his surprise, James rose to his feet. “Please sit. Forgive me, I did not expect you.”

“No, I imagine you would not have done, as you sent no word of your return.”

James looked sheepish. “I only wanted a few days… to get my affairs in order…”

Sutton, too, grew strangely embarrassed. He was unaccustomed to seeing James this way. His friend had always been diligent about his appearance, particularly after becoming a soldier. Instead of demanding to know what had transpired, as Sutton intended, he inquired about the status of restoration efforts, and how the steward Mr. Barnes had found him was getting on. What a coward he had become!

James was relieved at the nature of his questions and answered eagerly. He shuffled through the papers on his desk to pull out plans for a new barn and estimates for stone to repair the chimney — matters for which Sutton could scarcely feign an interest, for he now had a terrible headache. 

After it seemed that James had exhausted the subject of repairs, Sutton brought himself to speak.

“James, what happened with Miss Hartwell? I have refrained from inquiring as long as I could, given the circumstances, but I… You must tell me.” 

James slowed in his shuffling of papers for a moment, but soon recommenced his busywork. 

“Is it not obvious?” James responded, without looking up, and with a hint of bitterness.

“I cannot reconcile your behaviour with a favourable outcome, but it does not seem possible—”

“You are correct: no engagement was formed.”

“How?” demanded Sutton.

“She does not love me, Aubrey.”

Sutton’s first reaction, to his shame, was relief. James’ pained expression when he lifted his gaze soon filled Sutton with an appropriate degree of dismay.

“Miss Hartwell rejected your proposal? That cannot be. She would not.”

Sutton had observed her closely, and had never seen any sign that Miss Hartwell was growing weary of James’ company. Indeed, she always brightened when he was around. In his absence, she could be retiring; with James, her smiles came more easily and she was more apt to share her thoughts and opinions, secure in the knowledge that she would find an eager audience in James. She did not dote as openly on James as he did on her, but that was little surprise. 

“I did not propose,” replied James.

“You assured me—”

“I could not think of marrying her without ensuring that she felt as strongly for me as I do for her!”

“I do not understand.”

“I told her of my feelings and asked her whether she felt the same.”

“She told you that she did not?” Sutton asked, with no less skepticism than before. 

“She said she felt great fondness and admiration for me, but was not certain if it was love. She requested that I give her time. She as good as said she would have agreed to marry me, had I asked, but I…” James rose to his feet and began pacing, shaking his head. “Poor Elinor! She was so distressed when I left her. I know I have injured her, but I do not think her feelings for me would ever have changed!”

Sutton was more surprised to learn that Miss Hartwell had admitted to this fact than he was to hear that she did not love James as he loved her. In fact, he found it astounding. If she liked James as much as she claimed (Sutton believed that she did), and if she could not expect to do any better (as she surely could not), her honesty was phenomenally stupid. A simple lie would have bought her the comfort and security she lacked.

Yet he loved her all the better for it. For one ridiculous moment, he had the wild urge to go to her, and to take her up in his arms and kiss her — not out of passion, but the deepest gratitude. James’ present disappointment was great, but how much greater it would have been had she acted otherwise! 

At the same time, Sutton resented that she and James had not behaved according to plan. He had diligently prepared himself for their engagement, and now found himself without any idea of what to do or how to feel.

“This was badly done,” he said finally, though he had no cause for this pronouncement other than his own mounting discomfort. 

“How should I have gone about it, Aubrey? Would you have had me disregard your feelings _and_ hers, and marry her because it was what others expected of me?”

“I told you I could bear it.”

“I do not doubt that you could, but what of me? Indeed, I could not. Would you truly prefer that the both of us were miserable — and Elinor as well? I am glad I asked, painful though the answer was. I regret that Miss Hartwell will bear the consequences, but I am certain that, in time…”

“Of what are you certain? That she will find another? Do not look to _me_ , James.”

“Your stubbornness does not render it an impossibility, Aubrey.”

That was true. Miss Hartwell was free. He had never imagined a world in which she was not attached to James. 

Yet it changed nothing. What sort of man would he be if he pursued the woman James loved? As for Miss Hartwell, she could only view him with aversion after the way he had acted. And though she was admired in her circle and accomplished given her circumstances, Miss Hartwell was no fit match for the likes of him.

No — let them speak of James’ repairs from this moment on. He could bear no more talk of Miss Hartwell. 

“You are starting a new life here. We must put all this behind us.”

James regarded him with dismay. “I wonder if your feelings can truly be as you say, if you believe that Elinor can be so easily forgotten.”

This accusation stung, but he could hardly seek to defend his love for Miss Hartwell under the circumstances. “What good can come of thinking of her any longer? You must try.”

_As will I_ , Sutton resolved. 

At first, James shook his head at this entreaty, a look of fierce defiance in his eyes. Yet after a period of contemplation, he finally nodded.

“I will not forget her, but you are right. It will not do to dwell on this matter. I must bear this as bravely as I hope she shall — as indeed she will.” He smiled weakly. “She will be well again, won’t she?”

Sutton was helpless to answer. Instead he pleaded, in a soft voice, “Forgive me for my part in this, James.” 

James clasped him by the shoulder. “I do, Aubrey — with my whole heart. Do you forgive me?”

Sutton gave a short laugh at the question, before it struck him, with a chill, that it was not absurd at all. James knew him better than he knew himself. Of course Sutton resented James for having what he could not, and never would — if not Miss Hartwell’s love, then at least her admiration and good opinion. He felt profoundly ashamed to be seen for all his weakness, but there was not a trace of judgment in James’ voice or in his kind brown eyes.

His jaw tensed and he found himself unable to speak, but James gave his shoulder a squeeze, and then released it with a smile.

“No doubt you will when you are able, Aubrey.”

Sutton loathed himself for his inability to echo James’ sincere and open absolution, particularly as James had no rational cause to seek _his_ forgiveness. Nevertheless, he was comforted. James was a far better man than he — there was no question of that. Sutton felt assured that so long as he did his utmost to deserve James’ friendship, and to aid him where he could, they would not be driven asunder.

  
And Miss Hartwell _would_ be well again. He wished he had been strong enough to assure James of that, but the moment had passed, and he dared not speak her name again.


	4. Elinor II

* * *

Elinor II

* * *

Upon learning of the unhappy conclusion of Elinor’s conversation with Mr. Graham, Mama (who was not given to displays of emotion) asked only “How can this be, Elinor? How can this possibly be?” before withdrawing into her room for almost a day. When she finally emerged, Mama informed Elinor that they had been terribly deceived in Mr. Graham, that she did not hold Elinor responsible (though she _had_ warned her), and that they would never speak of Mr. Graham again. She remained faithful to that vow in the days and weeks that followed, for the most part, though that did not mean there were not forlorn looks and consequential sighs.

Elinor had not expected her mother’s to be a shoulder on which she could cry. That had never been her mother’s nature. Mama had always been the staid and sensible one. Papa was the one who comforted (or cosseted, if Mama was to be believed); who tempted Elinor away from her needlework to observe the flora and fauna of the surrounding woods; who devoted far more time to the study of philosophy and science than he did to his finances. It was easy for a child to love such a father, and Elinor did, whole-heartedly. Nevertheless, Elinor saw the burden that his behaviour placed upon Mama, particularly in the wake of his death, and resolved that she would not do the same.

Thus, even though Elinor longed for her mother's comfort and understanding, she felt that she must endure her disappointment alone. At times, she distracted herself with her music; at others, she indulged her melancholy by walking the paths she and Mr. Graham walked together — the same she had so often walked with Papa. In sillier moments, she wondered tearfully whether her beloved woods were cursed. She had lost every man with whom she had ever shared them: first her brother Christopher, then Papa, and now James. 

She avoided going into town for a time, but decided that hiding her face would only convince people that she was worthy of blame. There were some whispers and stares when Elinor passed through town, and Mrs. Norris would not even deign to approach to lecture her — though, in truth, that was a blessing. And though Elinor despised being the center of attention, and the subject of gossip, her true friends remained steadfast. 

She had not doubted Mary’s loyalty for a second, but feared that Mr. and Mrs. Earlwood might encourage their daughter to maintain distance from Elinor, at least for a time, lest Mary and her sisters bear some taint from association. Yet not a week after Mr. Graham left and it became clear to all that no engagement had or would take place between Mr. Graham and herself, the Earlwoods invited Elinor and her mother to Dunnistone, and the unpleasant business was not spoken of at all, though Mrs. Earlwood took Elinor by the hand and gave her a look of profound sympathy. Mama had nearly wept out of relief when she received the invitation. 

The Worthingtons called soon after his departure as well. Mr. Worthington expressed his surprise and disappointment in Mr. Graham, and assured Mama that, in his view, Elinor’s conduct had been beyond reproach. Although Elinor felt ill at ease hearing blame laid upon Mr. Graham, she was grateful to Mr. Worthington for having come, and not only for her mother’s sake. Mr. Worthington was her father’s closest friend, and his kindness and understanding felt like a proxy for the sympathy she might have received from Papa if he were alive.

Mary was the only person in the world to whom Elinor could bear to tell the full story. To Phoebe (who was occupied with her wedding preparations), she said only that Mr. Graham behaved strangely and that he told her that he intended to leave and not return.

“ _I_ think he behaved very badly,” Mary told her resolutely, as they walked arm in arm in the gardens of Dunnistone Manor. “Even if _you_ are willing to forgive him. I have no doubt Lord Sutton has some hand in this, but Mr. Graham is very weak-willed if he would so easily be prevailed upon to abandon you!”

“Perhaps, but surely I must bear some blame,” insisted Elinor. “I disappointed him so.”

“Perhaps you _do_ love him. I have never seen you so unhappy, except for when your father passed, of course.”

Elinor considered this for a moment. “You are not wrong. James — _Mr. Graham_ was very dear to me. I do not think I have ever spoken as easily and freely with anyone, save you and Papa. I felt… truly _special_ when I was with him.”

She hesitated before adding, “Yet at the same time, I feel strangely relieved. Part of me dreaded leaving my home and all those I love— perhaps the greater part of me. Would I not find the prospect more exciting than frightening if I had truly loved him?”

Mary merely smiled in response. There was something strange about her expression, as if there were a story behind it to which Elinor was not privy. If she had something to say on the matter, she did not volunteer it, so Elinor continued.

“I sometimes imagine that he might appear, and say he has changed his mind. I wonder what I would say, even as I know now that I could not possibly make him happy.”

“You will drive yourself to distraction if you continue in this way,” chided Mary. “I will find you an altogether superior match, I swear it, and then you will never have occasion to think of him again.”

Elinor could not help but laugh, even as she doubted that she would ever be able to banish Mr. Graham from her thoughts. “You are a most devoted friend, but surely if you found such a man, you would want him for yourself?”

Mary feigned dismay. “You doubt that I would sacrifice my happiness for yours?”

Elinor arched a brow.

“In any event, who is to say that the same man would suit us both? We have very different tastes — and I may already have someone in mind for myself.”

“I thought you had decided against Mr. Ashcroft. You said you do not find him ‘exciting.’”

“Whoever said I spoke of Mr. Ashcroft?” replied Mary with a wry smile.

Elinor was equally astonished and ashamed to learn that Mary had formed an attachment without her realising. She had spent much time with Mr. Graham over the past months, to the detriment of her friendship with Mary, it seemed. Mary did not seem resentful, and perhaps Elinor had not been so very negligent, but she was determined to do better. She would devote herself to her friends and to her mother and hopefully, in doing so, would begin to move past this trial. 

Elinor was equally determined to puzzle out who the man could be, if not Mr. Ashcroft. Certainly it was _not_ Mr. Digby — it was an uncharitable thought, but she doubted even his own mother could find him exciting. The schoolmaster Mr. Simmons came to mind, but Elinor dismissed him quickly. He was handsome but penniless, and would be a poor match for Mary, who had £15,000. 

“I’ve just had a wonderful idea,” cried Mary. “Why don’t we visit the children at Lampton Hall? That would take your mind off things, surely.”

Perhaps Elinor had been too hasty in dismissing Mr. Simmons. She considered for a moment asking Mary outright whether he had caught her fancy, but knew Mary well enough to know that she would not provide an honest reply until she was good and ready. 

“I fear that I will fail to amuse in my current state,” Elinor answered. The statement was not untrue, but was motivated in part by her desire to see whether Mary would press for the outing. 

“How could you? They so enjoy your playing! I am certain it will do you some good.”

This bolstered Elinor’s suspicion, as did Mary’s eagerness that they should go _now_ , even though Elinor cautioned that the school day was likely not at an end. 

Nevertheless, the carriage was called and the two arrived at Lampton Hall. Mary entered the house without knocking and without the least hesitation. They had visited together once before, but Elinor could only conclude from Mary’s conduct that she had visited many times since. 

Indeed, when the children turned to look at who had entered, none seemed the least bit surprised to see her. 

“Hello Miss Earlwood!” cried Tabitha warmly.

“Miss Earlwood, Miss Hartwell,” Mr. Simmons said with far less familiarity, setting aside the hornbook in his hand.

“I do hope we are not interrupting,” Elinor replied, sheepishly, for it was apparent that they _were_.

“No, of course not,” he insisted, adjusting his spectacles. “It is always a privilege for the children to share the company of such distinguished ladies.”

Elinor gave a polite smile; Mary laughed.

“My father would be most pleased to hear me described thus,” she quipped. 

Mr. Simmons coloured and looked away.

“Look, children, I have brought Miss Hartwell with me this time. You must convince her to play for you.”

The children chattered excitedly at this proposition. Elinor suspected that they were more eager for a respite from their lessons than to hear her perform.

She pretended to give the matter serious consideration before nodding in defeat. “Very well, I am convinced!”

The pianoforte in the schoolroom was a modest but fine instrument — finer, even, than her own at home. She sat down and briefly familiarized herself with the instrument before beginning to play.

Elinor started with the usual favourites. Then, without thinking, she began playing the “The Lovely Lass of Inverness.” It was a lovely arrangement, but desperately mournful and not at all the sort of song one played to a room of eager schoolchildren. She stopped abruptly midway through — not because she realised her misstep, but because she had nearly brought herself to tears — and soon noticed the confused and troubled expressions of the children. She mumbled an apology and forced herself to play “My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.”

Elinor was only a few bars into the song when she felt the attention shift away from her performance and toward the door. She stopped and turned to see who had arrived.

“Forgive me for interrupting,” said Mr. Curtis, his hat in his hand.

He was met with a chorus of greetings from the children, who all rose excitedly to their feet. He dutifully greeted each child by name, and then Mr. Simmons, before nodding politely to Elinor.

“Good day, Mr. Curtis,” said Elinor, rising to curtsy.

“Good day, Miss Hartwell.” 

“You have forgotten me, I think, sir,” Mary chided good-naturedly. 

“That would not be possible, Miss Earlwood,” he answered with the slightest of smiles.

“Have I not done well, Mr. Curtis, securing such entertainment for the children?” asked Mary, beaming.

“Miss Hartwell _is_ Darlington’s greatest talent,” he replied curtly. It was not spoken with the cold irony she might receive from Lord Sutton, but it stung nonetheless. 

Elinor had never managed to get on with Mr. Curtis, much to the disappointment of Mr. Worthington, who had harboured hopes that they might be a match. It was not that she had not tried, but she seemed as likely to displease him as not each time she ventured an opinion in his presence. Mr. Curtis seemed stubbornly set in his views on poetry and literature, among other things, and while Elinor could not help but concede that he _was_ better read than she, she was not devoid of stubbornness herself. She was unwilling to bow to his way of seeing things, though it seemed to her that nothing less would win his good opinion. 

Elinor did admire his patronage of the school, which had recently been revealed, and was disposed to think well of him for that, and for the esteem that Mr. Worthington bore him. Nevertheless, she found his company more exhausting even than Lord Sutton’s, for at least with the latter she knew where she stood.

For this reason, Elinor ignored his comment. Mary did not.

“Oh, I will not allow such a limitation. She is the best pianist in the county!”

“I do not aspire to any such title, Mary,” Elinor responded. She resented Mr. Curtis’ apparent belief that she was prideful, though she could not deny that she _did_ pride herself on her abilities, and believed that she _was_ more talented at music than any other young lady in her circle. Yet she was also the first to notice a false note, and was keenly aware of how limited her circle was, and how humble her abilities would be if measured against anyone of true skill.

“Perhaps the children would enjoy some time out of doors, Mr. Simmons,” said Mr. Curtis. “It is a pleasant afternoon.”

Mr. Simmons seemed relieved to oblige, and led the children out. 

“It is good of you to come, Miss Hartwell. I would have thought —” Mr. Curtis caught himself and had the decency to look contrite over his allusion to her recent embarrassment. He was not overly fond of Elinor, perhaps, but unlike Lord Sutton, he did not make an effort to offend her.

Once again, Elinor was content to let his comment pass, but Mary rose at once to her defense. 

“Would have thought what, Mr. Curtis? That she would shut herself away forever because of an unworthy suitor? I would never allow that. If you think that is what she _ought_ to have done—”

“No, I do not,” he replied. He looked thoughtful for a moment before adding, “Charm and beauty may be beguiling, but one pursues them at one’s peril. I have experienced this myself.”

Elinor knew this was an attempt to be kind, could not help but respond to his insinuation.

“One would think a man as fond of literature as yourself would think better of judging circumstances upon how they first appear. If you suppose that Mr. Graham’s virtues are only superficial, you do not know him at all.”

Mr. Curtis regarded her with astonishment, before a look of profound sympathy set in. Elinor knew that she had only made herself appear pathetic in defending the man whom all believed had abandoned her, but she could not consider herself worthy of Mr. Graham’s love if she had let the statement pass unchallenged.

“You will never hear _me_ defend Mr. Graham, but I think we must defer to Elinor’s assessment of his character,” said Mary. “Come now, let us all be friends!”

“Forgive me, Miss Hartwell. I see that I have spoken out of turn.”

Elinor grew embarrassed that she had rebuked him so passionately. “I must also apologise. What transpired between Mr. Graham and I… I know that my friends judge him for his conduct, but the circumstances are more complicated than they would appear. Mr. Graham is to be pitied no less than I— not that I deserve or wish for pity from anyone. I would sooner that all forgot!”

He smiled sadly at these words. Elinor knew that he had suffered a disappointment of his own, though she knew not the particulars — Mr. Worthington had alluded to it only in the vaguest of terms. She had thought it curious that a man who was no longer young would brood over an old slight in the manner Mr. Curtis seemed to, but Elinor now felt that she had been hard-hearted in judging him. Forgetting Mr. Graham seemed an impossible task, even if she had not loved him in the way he would have wished. And part of her rebelled against the very thought of casting off the memories of their time together, even though it stung to recall their sun-dappled walks and his rich, ringing laugh. She supposed it was the same for Mr. Curtis — and all the worse for the fact that he had truly loved this lady, whomever she might be.

Elinor felt more kindly disposed to him now than she had ever felt before, and the remainder of their conversation that afternoon was pleasant. She even volunteered to come to Lampton Hall every other day to instruct the boy Colin in his playing, for his schoolmasters thought he showed promise, and their own musical abilities were limited. 

When they departed, Elinor saw that Mary was quite pleased. She nearly protested that Mary should not begin to imagine that Mr. Curtis would be the man to mend her heart, before it occurred to her that Mr. Curtis might be the man to whom her friend had earlier alluded. 

Elinor could scarcely credit it. Mr. Curtis was indeed wealthy, but so often grave and aloof, while Mary so dearly loved to laugh and to make merry. And even if the spectre of Mr. Curtis’s first love did not stand in Mary’s path, Elinor feared that she had shaken Mr. Curtis’s trust in young women such that he would not risk another romance. Perhaps she had seen some sign of his tenderness towards Mary, but she feared for her friend’s happiness.

But Elinor could not burden Mary with these cares. No doubt her own disillusionment was colouring her view of the matter. She gave her friend’s hand a squeeze as they sat in the carriage, which Mary returned with a smile, though neither spoke of Mr. Curtis. 

Surely, thought Elinor, fate would be kind to Mary, as it always had been!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is the author lazily grafting the protagonist's plotline with Mr. Curtis onto Mary? Only time will tell!


	5. Elinor III

* * *

Elinor III

* * *

In the months that followed, Elinor spent her days occupied with the usual tasks, though she made an effort to be of greater assistance to Mama. She felt that her mother blamed her for not becoming engaged, even if she did not intend to. At times she was so short with Elinor that Bessy took notice, but the servant urged Elinor not to take it to heart. Elinor must realise that her mother loved her above all things, and if she was impatient, it was merely because she was worn with cares. Elinor agreed, though the words did little to ease her mind. 

She wished that her mother would share her worries, even if there was little Elinor could do to improve their situation — apart from marrying well, which she had failed to do thus far. No doubt this was why her mother said nothing. She hated feeling like a burden in her own home, but she could not judge Mama. Indeed, for the first time in her life, Elinor felt bitterness towards her father, who ought to have done more to see that his wife and daughter would be comfortable. She even blamed Christopher — was it not also _his_ duty to assure his mother and sister's wellbeing? But he had been away so long that perhaps he no longer considered them family at all. 

Elinor wished that there was a respectable occupation for a young woman that did not require her to live with another family who would treat her as an inferior, and instruct their children in exchange for little thanks or pay. But even if such an occupation existed, she knew Mama would insist things were not so bad that Elinor need do anything so mortifying as _work_.

For all her difficulties at home, Elinor found great fulfillment in teaching Colin. He was a soft-spoken and sensitive child, and took well to her instruction. She began going to Lampton Hall almost every afternoon, not only for a respite from her mother's silent opprobrium, but because it was a joy to see Colin's progress and growing confidence, and gratifying to know that her efforts might play some part in this poor orphan's advancement in the world. 

She sometimes observed Mary and Mr. Curtis walking near Lampton Hall when she came for Colin’s lessons, and could not bring herself to chide the children when they wondered amongst themselves whether Mary would soon become Mrs. Curtis. Indeed, Elinor began to think that perhaps Mary and Mr. Curtis _would_ do well for one another. Their dispositions were very different, but it was possible that each would temper the excesses of the other, and they would be all the better for loving one another. 

Elinor tried to muster joy for her friend. She knew that Mr. Curtis had a house in Yorkshire, but surely Mary would prevail upon him to stay on at Bradley House for the time being, for she loved her parents and sisters well. And perhaps things would not change so very much if the couple remained in Darlington. Elinor would still see her friend often. 

Yet Elinor knew that her friendship with Mary would be altered when the latter married, as her friendship with Phoebe and Tom already had been. They seemed to believe that all their concerns were of far greater consequence than anything Elinor faced, and it may have been that they were not mistaken. All the same, Elinor resented being made to feel lesser than her childhood friends simply because she had not found a partner. And she now dreaded being the last of them to marry.

It was then that a Mr. Everett came to Darlington. Elinor met him only once, at the Earlwoods' house — he was a friend of a friend of theirs — and thought him genial enough. He seemed rather more pleased with himself than she thought fitting, but his arrogance was not so great as to be offensive, and all seemed to agree that he was a handsome and charming man. Only later did she learn from Mr. Worthington that Mr. Curtis’ first love, Olivia, had chosen this Mr. Everett over him. 

Mr. Curtis was quick to perceive a slight, and Elinor worried how he might react upon hearing that Mary’s parents had entertained the man who had once robbed him of his happiness. Even worse, Mary had danced with the man, though no more than was proper, and she had not shown him any undue attention. A sensible man would not have troubled himself over it, for Mary had no reason to know of their history and surely would have avoided Mr. Everett if she had.

But Mr. Curtis soon revealed himself to be ridiculous, at least in Elinor’s eyes. After he learned that Mr. Everett had come, and that Mary had spoken to the man in a friendly manner, he left Darlington abruptly, without a word to any of his friends there, or to Mary. 

When Elinor went to Dunnistone Manor to offer comfort to her friend, she could not help but observe that Mr. Curtis’ conduct was cowardly and utterly unbefitting of a gentleman. But these were not words that Mary wished to hear and the two women quarreled. Rather, Mary told Elinor she wanted none of her sympathy, “such as it was,” and that if she held Mr. Curtis in such low esteem, she could think no more highly of Mary herself. Elinor did not see why that should be the case — she held such a low opinion of Mr. Curtis’ conduct precisely _because_ she valued Mary so highly. But she should not have argued the point, and the two did not part on good terms.

In hindsight, Elinor appreciated that she ought not to have criticised Mr. Curtis so severely, for Mary loved him well. Yet she would not accept that her judgment had been unfair. Not in a thousand years would Mr. Graham have behaved so unjustly, and with such little feeling for _her_! Why should allowances be made for Mr. Curtis, who was more than ten years his senior, and ought to be wiser? And had Mary not judged Mr. Graham, even though he had offered a full explanation for his conduct under the most trying of circumstances? (Mr. Graham was still in Elinor's thoughts nearly every day, though by now she thought of him only briefly, and hoped that he was well and did not suffer.)

Though Elinor felt that she should return to Dunnistone Manor and make amends, she could not bring herself to do so. She was more than willing to apologise for speaking indelicately and with too little regard for Mary’s feelings, but that would not be enough. Not until Elinor repented in full, and spoke of Mr. Curtis with the sympathy Mary thought he was due, would the two be reconciled. Even for the sake of her best friend, Elinor could not bring herself to feign compassion for a man who refused to deal with a young lady in a forthright manner. 

Elinor was surprised, then, when a servant came over from Dunnistone Manor several days after their argument and informed Elinor that her presence was urgently requested. She disliked that Mary had summoned her in this fashion, as if she were a lowly supplicant who must beg mercy at the hour and place of Mary’s choosing. Her pride was most easily wounded when her wealthier friends treated her as though she were not their equal, for she firmly (and perhaps arrogantly) believed that she _was_. 

Yet Elinor would bear the slight in this instance, for her estrangement with Mary weighed heavily on her heart. And as Mary had summoned _her_ , it was possible that she had come to see things as Elinor did, though Elinor knew better than to expect any apology. 

When she arrived at Dunnistone Manor, she expected that Mary would come to greet her. Instead, she was brought to a drawing room, where Mrs. Earlwood sat, looking anxious, while Mr. Earlwood leaned against the fireplace mantle, a distant look in his eyes. 

For a moment Elinor was speechless, for she could not imagine why the Earlwoods would summon her thus. They seemed equally uncertain of what to say to her. 

“Please sit, Elinor,” Mrs. Earlwood said finally, her voice strained. “No doubt you are wondering why you are here. Indeed, I told Mr. Earlwood that it was not right to speak to you without your mother present, but he insisted that we three speak alone.”

Elinor could not help but feel anxious, though she knew her only possible offense was disagreeing with Mary. Surely they did not intend to reprimand her for _that_. 

“Has something happened with Mary?” inquired Elinor. 

Mrs. Earlwood gave her husband a consequential look, but he waved her off. 

“You would have us believe that you do not know?” His tone was not unduly harsh, but she was shaken nonetheless — Mr. Earlwood had only ever spoken to her gently in the past. 

She sent him a searching look, and then turned to Mrs. Earlwood, who appeared mortified. 

“Take care, Mr. Earlwood,” his wife reprimanded. “You would not take it kindly if a man spoke to one of your daughters in that manner without _you_ present. Indeed, I wonder what Christopher would say about this — after the vow you made to him on his deathbed!” 

Elinor rose at once. She knew not what was afoot, but it did not sit well with her, and she did not think she was bound to remain if, by Mrs. Earlwood’s own admission, her father would be displeased with what was transpiring. 

“You are only making matters worse, Mrs. Earlwood,” her husband replied impatiently. He turned to Elinor and spoke in the warm tone with which she was familiar. “I see that we have frightened you, and for that I am deeply sorry. You must know that you have nothing to fear from us, who love you almost as though you were one of our own.”

This reassured Elinor, though she did not resume her seat. “Will you not tell me why you summoned me here?”

Mr. Earlwood nodded and, after exchanging a glance with his wife, proceeded. “I have always judged you an honest and level-headed young woman. I pray that you have played no part in this foolish plot of Mary’s.”

A chill came over Elinor and her heart began to hammer in her chest. “Mary and I quarreled, and I have not spoken to her in days. What is the plot of which you speak? Is she in danger? Has she come to harm?”

Her visible distress moved Mr. Earlwood, who rushed to her at once and took her hands in his. “Forgive me, Elinor, for having doubted you!”

She assured him that she bore no grudge and entreated him to tell her what had transpired.

“You must swear that you will speak to no one of what I am about to tell you. It would be Mary’s ruin if anyone were to find out.”

“I swear it, of course!” 

Mrs. Earlwood buried her face in her hands as her husband spoke. 

“Mary took the carriage to Hemel Hempstead with the intention of hiring a coach. You may guess her intended destination.”

“She would not!” cried Elinor without thinking. She regretted her words at once, for Mrs. Earlwood began to weep. 

“She would, it seems, and did,” Mr. Earlwood replied grimly. 

Elinor grew pale and had to do her utmost to conceal the horror she felt. What madness had seized Mary, that she could even think of going to Yorkshire unchaperoned to confront Mr. Curtis?

“Was she apprehended? She did not go through with it, I pray!”

“She was. Mary told the coachman that she was going to visit a friend there, and that her mother and I had given her leave to go unaccompanied. He thought this suspicious, and asked a footman to report their departure to Mrs. Earlwood. Thank God he did. Mrs. Earlwood was calling on Mrs. Worthington at the time, so we did not learn of her departure for another hour. Once we realised what was afoot, I set out straight away for Hemel Hempstead with one of the grooms. We found Mary shortly before her carriage was set to depart.”

“Thank God!” cried Elinor, who sank into a chair in relief.

Mr. Earlwood hesitated a moment before setting a hand on Elinor’s shoulder. “I must apologise again for suspecting that you were complicit in any respect. You have behaved with restraint in the wake of Mr. Graham’s departure. I wish that I could say the same of my own daughter.”

She saw how these words pained Mrs. Earlwood and felt compelled to speak. 

“It is not fair to compare our conduct, Mr. Earlwood. I know that Mary’s feelings for Mr. Curtis run far deeper than my feelings for Mr. Graham ever did. I do not condone what she did — or attempted to do — but it was as brave as it was foolish. None can doubt the sincerity of her feelings, when she was willing to risk all to persuade Mr. Curtis of her devotion.”

Mrs. Earlwood sent a weak smile of gratitude to Elinor, but her husband shook his head. 

“You should not admire her impetuous nature. She did not give a thought to her sisters and what would become of them had her plan succeeded!”

Elinor had too much of her mother in her to truly admire what Mary had done, but pitied her friend more than she blamed her. “I have not been the friend she required in this trying time. If I may see her, I will do my best to comfort her, and to convince her that she must abandon her scheme, if she has not done so already.”

“It was our hope that you would do just that,” said Mr. Earlwood, who seemed to have aged years in the short time since Elinor arrived. “She will not speak to her mother or me.”

Mr. Earlwood excused himself wearily, and Mrs. Earlwood accompanied Elinor to Mary’s chamber. Elinor noticed how ill at ease the woman was — it seemed that she wished to say something, but could not find the words. 

When they reached Mary’s door, Mrs. Earlwood spoke at last. 

“Please do not suppose we do not trust your mother, who has been a most reliable friend to our family. We are so anxious to protect Mary, and it was Mr. Earlwood’s firm wish that this shameful matter be disclosed to as few people as possible. We are already at the mercy of our servants, though they, too, have always been loyal.

“I told him that you could not have known, and so hated the thought that he should involve you in this matter without your mother’s knowledge… You will forgive him, won’t you? A father ought not to have favourites, but Mary has always been foremost in his heart. This has been a great trial for him, and indeed for us all — but that is no excuse. His conduct was improper, and I am sure he will do his utmost to make amends.”

Elinor once again gave assurances of her forgiveness, and that she was not offended on her mother’s behalf or her own, and neither expected nor wished for any amends. In truth, she was impatient to speak to Mary.

Mrs. Earlwood embraced her and went. Elinor hesitated before entering Mary’s room, for she had not had a moment to consider what she would say to Mary. But she doubted she could do any better than to listen to all Mary had to say without offering reproof. 

Elinor did not expect that emotion would overtake her, but when she saw Mary sitting on her bed, she imagined all the ill that might have befallen her friend, and could not help but cry, “Oh, Mary!”

“Do calm yourself, Elinor,” Mary replied, somewhat coldly, setting aside her book of Donne’s sonnets. “No harm has come of it, at least where my family’s honour is concerned. I have lost Mr. Curtis, but that is of no consequence to anyone but myself.” 

Elinor composed herself and took a seat on the edge of the bed. “I _am_ sorry, Mary. But I am sure Mr. Curtis would not wish for you to compromise your safety _and_ reputation in order to prove your love.”

“I do not think _you_ know what it is to love, Elinor.”

Elinor flinched. Over the months that had passed since she spoke to Mr. Graham last, she had wondered whether she lacked that fundamental ability. Perhaps Mary spoke the truth.

But Mary looked suddenly stricken and clasped Elinor’s hand. 

“Forgive me, Elinor, I spoke cruelly,” she cried. “I did not mean it.”

Elinor resolved to cast off any self-pity — as hurtful as those words were, Mary’s current predicament was of greater concern. Firmly, she said, “You must at least agree that no man is worth ruining oneself over.”

Mary scoffed. “I had no intention of ruining myself! Mr. Curtis would never take advantage — even you, who like him so little, must admit _that_. I went to convince him that my feelings were true and steadfast. If he saw that, I know that all would be different.” 

Elinor must have worn a pitying expression, for Mary frowned in indignation.

“I am not a fool, Elinor. I was not ignorant of the fact that my reputation, for a time, might have suffered, but in the end all would have been well. The risk was calculated.”

Elinor wondered how calculated the risk could be when Mr. Curtis had shown himself to be so unreliable, but knew better than to say so. 

“I do not think you are a fool, Mary. But you must see why your father stopped you.”

“Because he is a hateful tyrant.”

Elinor laughed despite herself. “Your father is neither hateful nor a tyrant. I very much doubt that there is a father who _would_ permit such a journey. Mine certainly would not have done, and you know how liberal he was.”

“Of course you take _his_ side.”

“I do not. I take your side in this and in all things, but I do not wish to see you come to harm. If you believe that your happiness lies with Mr. Curtis, I will do what I can to see you reconciled. Are you allowed to post letters?”

“Father did not forbid it, but as I am not permitted to leave the house alone, I have no doubt that the recipient of the letter would become known, and that it would not be posted. I cannot entrust it to any of the servants, for I know they would betray me.”

“If there is a letter you wish to send, I will post it for you.” 

“Truly?”

Elinor was certain that her father would have permitted her to write, were she in Mary’s position. With the benefit of age, she was inclined to agree with Mama that her father was at times too permissive, but she did not see that any harm could come of a letter. 

“I trust in Mr. Curtis’ discretion. Perhaps it will move him to reconsider. If not, it is only fair that you have a chance to say your piece.”

“Oh, Elinor, thank you!” Mary cried, embracing her.

“I hope you will be reconciled, for your sake,” replied Elinor. “But you must prepare yourself for the possibility that you will not.”

* * *

In the end, it appeared that, for perhaps the first time in Mary’s life, she would not get her way. Weeks had passed since her letter was posted and no response came. Elinor agreed to post a second letter on Mary's behalf, in the event that the first had not reached its destination, but convinced Mary that there could be no sense in her sending a third. Every time Elinor called on Mary, she appeared more dispirited, though she rarely spoke of Mr. Curtis and did her best to feign cheer for her parents’ and sisters’ sakes. (Mary had, in short order, reconciled herself with her father, for neither had any talent for remaining angry with the other.) Moved by concern for Mary, Elinor prevailed upon Mr. Worthington to write to Mr. Curtis of Mary's unhappiness, in the hopes that Mr. Curtis might be moved old friend's words, even as he coldly ignored Mary's. The man was reluctant to do so, but Elinor saw that even he did not think highly of Mr. Curtis' conduct. Yet nothing came of that letter, either. 

Elinor and Mary were walking the gardens of Dunnistone Manor on a brisk winter morning when Mary mentioned Mr. Curtis again. 

“I do not think he will ever write, Elinor.”

Elinor thought the same, but did not wish to dash Mary’s hopes prematurely. “It has not been so very long.”

“You need not spare me. I know I was cross when you judged him, but I can admit now that he did not behave well. I love him, and know that he only reacted thus because he was in pain… but if he truly loved _me_ , would he not have pity?”

“I believe he is only lacking in courage,” Elinor answered. “I am certain he does love you.”

She spoke sincerely, though she doubted whether it was any great boon to have the love of a man who would not act upon it. Yet she had resolved after their argument never to say an unkind word about Mr. Curtis, unless she felt she must to steer Mary away from committing a grave error.

They walked silently for a time, each absorbed in her own thoughts, before Mary began to weep.

“I am so afraid, Elinor, that I shall never be happy again!”

Elinor pitied her friend, but could not help but think that Mary had so many reasons to be grateful. She was wealthy and beautiful, and well-loved by her family. She had never lost a sibling or parent to illness or estrangement. Perhaps Elinor had not suffered as greatly in love as Mary, but had she not suffered more in other ways? Tears stung at her eyes, and she found she could not still her tongue.

“Do you think I don’t fear the same for myself? What have _I_ to look forward to, but to become an old maid and burden on my poor mother?”

Mary stared at her for a moment, mouth agape, before she burst into laughter. Elinor did not think her cares were any cause for amusement, but relented after a moment. No doubt it had occurred to Mary, as it now occurred to her, that it was ridiculous that two grown women should carry on so, as if they did not have their health and their wits and some ability to change their circumstances if they set their minds to it. 

“We have not done very well for ourselves, have we?” Elinor asked, laughing through tears.

“At least we have given Mrs. Norris a great deal to talk about!” Mary quipped, dabbing her nose with her handkerchief.

“What are we to do? Tom has married Phoebe, the regiment has gone, Mr. Ashcroft is quitting Thornleigh Abbey… There is only Mr. Digby left!”

“And to win him, you must contend with me!” Mary replied, with a devious smile.

“Whichever of us learns to love the weather more will surely win the day,” Elinor said, sighing in feigned resignation.

Mary once again dissolved into laughter, and Elinor joined, each overcome by the thought of spending day in and day out discussing darkening clouds and whether the sun might show its face.

When they calmed themselves, Mary took Elinor’s hand again, her eyes shining. “Papa wishes to bring me to town for the season. He thinks if I attend enough balls and am thrown into the paths of enough eligible men, I will forget Mr. Curtis altogether. I doubt that I shall, but if I do not receive a response to my letter by the week’s end, I am of a mind to agree — provided that you accompany me. It is too painful to remain here.”

Elinor almost agreed at once, though she was not at liberty to do so without her mother’s consent. She had always longed to travel and felt that a change of scenery would also do her good. But she realised with a pang that her gowns, though well-maintained, were all several seasons out of fashion. Vain though it might be, she did not wish to look the poor country girl beside Mary, who would no doubt be splendid.

“I do not think I am fashionable enough for London, and there is Mama to consider—”

“Nonsense, you are only in need of a dress or two. You must have my green silk; it will look lovely with your eyes. Do not protest! It is Papa’s sincere wish, as well as my own, that you should join us. And he is so thoroughly ashamed that he involved you in this matter that I am sure you could get as many dresses as you like out of the bargain! Certainly your mama will part with you gladly, for there will be no shortage of suitors!”

Indeed, when Elinor informed her mother of the invitation, she was overjoyed on Elinor's behalf. And so it was settled that Mr. Earlwood, Mary, and Elinor would go to London for the season, and would stay with his cousin, a wealthy widow named Mrs. Bristow. 

Elinor would miss Mama and Bessy, and her lessons with young Colin, but for the first since she and Mr. Graham parted ways, she was genuinely hopeful for what the future may hold. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any Mr. Curtis stans - Elinor's opinions on Mr. Curtis are her own. I will not deny him a chance at redemption.


	6. Sutton III

* * *

Sutton III

* * *

James’ presence in Cambridgeshire kept Lord Sutton at Wealdworth far more often than was his habit. As loath as Sutton was to play the part of host, he had even thrown a ball there in James’ honour, though he disappointed all the eligible young ladies by refusing to dance. He and James enjoyed many a day in one another’s company, and it seemed as though their rapport was now the same as it had before either had met Miss Hartwell — possibly stronger, for now James was happily settled in the neighbourhood.

Yet Sutton was, as ever, eager to remove to London for the season. Even having James near at hand could not make a committed country gentleman out of him. And James was so often occupied. He was very solicitous of his duties as a landowner and tenant, and of the comfort of his brother’s widow, formerly Miss Thorpe, whom James had set up in a cottage near Strathbourne House. It was a credit to James that he showed such consideration to his sister-in-law, who had been so haughty and covetous when last they knew one another. 

Sutton enjoyed some female companionship of his own when he was invited to stay at other manor houses in the county that autumn and winter — with women in the nearby inns, and occasionally with the wives of members of the party gathered at the house, though he tried to avoid such intrigues unless the husband was particularly old or boorish, or the wife particularly charming. But the rakish exploits that had once thoroughly contented him now left him wanting. 

He did not think of Miss Hartwell in the midst of these amorous acts, nor did he wish that she was in the place of the woman in his arms. But in the breathless moments after _le petit mort,_ his thoughts frequently drifted to her. He knew not why. He had never been mad with lust for Elinor. No doubt if he had her, he would find her lack of experience trying. 

The fact that Sutton was unable to banish Miss Hartwell entirely from his mind was yet another reason that he was eager to return to the diversions of town. If they could not rid him of her finally, then nothing would — and that was a thought he could not support.

It was the evening before Sutton’s departure that James called. It was an unusually late hour for a visit, but Sutton welcomed James into his study and poured them both a glass of brandy. He was in good humour, for he was more than ready to be gone, and the hour of his departure was nigh. 

“Are you certain I cannot persuade you to join me?” he asked, leaning back in his desk chair. “You have been working too hard, James. Some amusement is certainly in order.”

James laughed somewhat uncertainly. “I know you are the older of us two, but I doubt if I can keep up with you anymore. Being a landed gentleman has aged me quite.”

“Nonsense. It is like anything else — with a bit of practice, you will be as fit for debauchery as ever.” 

Sutton took a hearty sip of his brandy, but saw how James swilled the liquor around in the glass without bringing it to his lips.

After a moment, James spoke. “I hardly think it would be fitting to resume such exploits, when I am soon to be a married man.”

“You are to be _what_?” demanded Sutton, sitting upright. 

James smiled, though with trepidation.

“You mean that you intend to seek a wife presently,” Sutton insisted. “You are not yet engaged, of course.”

“I am, Aubrey.”

“How can that be possible? You rarely socialise — you have not mentioned no one to me —”

James began to protest but Sutton pressed on.

“Have you gotten a chambermaid with child? Damn it, man, you must know that that is no reason to marry! You can see to it that the woman is paid and the child—”

Only when James rose to his feet and slammed his glass on Sutton’s desk did Sutton grow silent.

“I have gotten no one with child, Aubrey, and I _have_ spoken of the lady in question to you many times. It is Amelia.”

James flushed and sat back down, embarrassed. 

“Your brother’s widow?” asked Sutton. “Is that even legal?”

He saw that this reaction wounded James and wished he had taken a moment to collect his thoughts. He took a steadying sip of brandy and tried again.

“I am surprised, that is all. I thought you merely felt a duty to look after the wellbeing of a poor relation. I had no idea… You never mentioned that your feelings for her were such.”

James stared into his lap and said nothing. Sutton began to realise why James had not told him before and was mortified. It seemed that he had been a fool to believe that they were wholly reconciled. 

“You feared that I would spoil a second match for you?” he asked coldly.

“No, that is not it at all, Aubrey! I worried that you would judge me.”

Sutton scoffed and threw back the rest of his glass before refilling it. “ _Judge you_ ? Because Amelia ought to still be in mourning? I cared nothing for your brother, as you well know, so I am unlikely to object on _his_ behalf. And if it is because of the way she once was… I have heard that she is much altered by what she endured with Francis. If you are capable of loving her as she now is, and believe she feels the same — James, how could I be anything but happy for you?”

James exhaled, as in relief, though Sutton could tell that there was something that weighed on him still.

“I am gratified to hear you say so. I admit I did worry that you might distrust Amelia’s intentions towards me, but that is not why I did not speak sooner — not the only reason, at least.” James took a sip of his brandy with a grimace before proceeding. “I did not speak sooner because — because it has not been so very long since — since it was Elinor that I loved.”

Sutton frowned. It _had_ occurred to him that this engagement followed rather hard on the heels of what he believed to be a consequential heartbreak for James. Nevertheless, if James was assured of his decision, _he_ could have no reason to object, and said so. 

“You must think me inconstant,” James replied, his brow furrowing. “I admit that I never anticipated that I should find happiness again, and so soon.”

“Why should you apologise for that? You do not owe Miss Hartwell your eternal devotion.”

James took a large sip, which he managed to swallow without coughing, and smiled sheepishly. “Not eternal, certainly. But it has scarcely been five months.”

“Then you should revel in your good fortune,” Sutton replied, raising his glass in a toast. 

“I imagined myself to be so wretched when I lost her. Now I think I must seem a fraud to you.”

“What opinion can _I_ have on the matter?” asked Sutton crossly, for he well knew where this was headed.

James hesitated. “Aubrey, are _you_ not still —”

“That is quite enough,” said Sutton. His fists had clenched — he flexed his hands and set them out flat on his desk, affecting composure. “It is not a contest, nor any cause for pride. Rather the opposite, if you ask me.”

“Very well,” James replied dourly. 

But only a moment later, and perhaps emboldened by drink, he spoke again. “No — I _will_ say this, and then I will be silent. We said we would put her behind us, but there is no shame in being unable to do so. There is no shame in being steadfast, Aubrey! Nor would there be any shame in choosing to act, rather than seeking to snuff out that which would sooner burn bright!”

There was a strange intensity to James’ gaze that disarmed Sutton — he could not bring himself to respond with the impatience that he had felt only a moment ago. 

“That settles it,” he replied finally, forcing a smirk, though he would not meet James’ eye. “No more liquor for you. I see that after a few sips of brandy, you fancy yourself a poet.”

James grew pensive. “I always fancied myself steadfast. You do not think any less of me for being so happy with Amelia?”

“I think as well of you as I always have done, James. You are infinitely capable of love. It is a virtue, no doubt, though one I am glad I do not possess.”

“I hope that is not your manner of saying I am quick to forget, and not so very discerning?”

“Of course not,” replied Sutton, with a genuine smile. “Though I will admit that I think you are a fool for rushing headlong into marriage when you have only just attained independence.”

“I have never desired independence. And there is no haste — we are to have a long engagement. Amelia would like to wait until a full year has passed since Francis’ death. She thinks it will help to minimise gossip. I fear that it will make no difference, but I am happy to indulge her. And by then the season will be over, so you will not have to journey back especially for our wedding.”

“A long engagement seems wise to me, provided you can remain patient that long.”

James flushed. “ _I_ am perfectly capable of behaving myself. I only hope that _you_ will behave yourself while in town.”

Sutton assured his friend that he had no intention of doing so. He would do all that was required to “snuff out that which would sooner burn bright,” as James had so colourfully put it, and would return to Cambridgeshire a new man — or rather, as the old Sutton.


	7. Elinor IV

* * *

Elinor IV

* * *

Mr. Earlwood’s cousin, Mrs. Bristow, had a fine house in Mayfair, near Grosvenor Street. She was a plump and handsome woman, with shrewd eyes and a generous spirit. No sooner had they all arrived that she insisted upon taking the young ladies to the _modiste_ (as apparently fashionable London dressmakers were called). They would each have two new dresses, though Mary already had three new dresses made shortly before their departure — Mrs. Bristow would brook no refusal. Elinor had been embarrassed by the thought of Mr. Earlwood paying for new clothes for her, but for this woman whom she barely knew to do so —! But Mary thought nothing of it. Mrs. Bristow had no children and considerable wealth. Why should she not spread her good fortune? And was Elinor not already being housed and fed by Mrs. Bristow — what difference was there between that and purchasing some new gowns?

Elinor supposed that Mary had no notion of the cost of fabric, or rather, the figure meant little to her, for no doubt her father could afford it. Though Elinor struggled with feeling that she was a charity case, Mrs. Bristow did not treat her as a burden. If anything, she seemed glad of Elinor’s presence, “for there is nothing I like so much as a coup!” She seemed to have at the ready a list of eligible men whose positions were such that a small dowry should not pose a great impediment, provided the young lady was accomplished and pretty. Mrs. Bristow deemed Elinor “pretty enough,” and was very pleased when she displayed her skills at the pianoforte, though she advised Elinor to devote more effort to her drawing, which was far from impressive, and to her embroidery, which she declared “middling at best.” 

“After all,” said Mrs. Bristow, “for one in your position, it is really the mama that you must impress.”

This gave Elinor the impression that she was mere chattel for middle-aged women to nitpick and pass over at the slightest sign of a defect. She thought that it must be possible for a man to come to love her for herself, with all her shortcomings, and have confidence in his own convictions. Had that not been the case with Mr. Graham? Yet he no longer had a mother, and she trusted that Mrs. Bristow must know better than she how things were done in town, as little as she liked it.

Mrs. Bristow thought it wise to ease the young ladies into society, so they attended galleries and concerts at first, yet still met a great number of people. Indeed, in comparison to Elinor’s circle at home, Mrs. Bristow’s seemed truly boundless. Elinor was introduced to several of the men that Mrs. Bristow believed might suit her at these assemblies, but none left any sort of impression. Nevertheless, Elinor did her best to be charming, and Mrs. Bristow seemed pleased with her performance. Mary was less willing to humour Mrs. Bristow’s matchmaking efforts, and was impatient to attend a ball, for she loved nothing better than dancing. Mrs. Bristow assured them that they would soon have their fill of balls.

While the prospect of being foisted on eligible suitors and their mothers filled Elinor with some anxiety, she thoroughly enjoyed the bustle of London. It was very different to the idyllic Darlington that she loved so well, but there was always something new to discover. 

Elinor had been to London once before, when she was a child, but had little recollection of it. She must have been young indeed, for her brother Christopher had still been with them at the time. They had all stayed with her aunt, Lady Rossington, and the only thing she could remember about their visit was that her father and aunt had argued. She was not witness to it, and, as with most consequential events in her family, the particulars were concealed from her. Elinor only knew that they were not invited to stay again, and that her aunt had never taken any pains to ease the path of her less fortunate relations, though she continued to write, and had expressed regret at her brother’s passing. Lady Rossington had also allowed Christopher to stay with her, for a time, when he broke with his parents. Elinor supposed that, too, revealed a glimmer of familial feeling.

Though she was uncertain of how things stood with her aunt, Elinor had thought it only proper to inform Lady Rossington that she was in town. She wrote that she was the Earlwoods’ guest and was staying with Mrs. Bristow, and that she would be happy to call upon her aunt at her convenience. She did not expect anything to come of it.

They had been in town a little more than two weeks when Elinor received a missive from Lady Rossington. She was surprised, and then mortified, to read it. Lady Rossington was holding a ball and requested the presence of Elinor and Elinor alone — there was no mention of the Earlwoods or Mrs. Bristow. 

The only mercy was that Mary was not present when she opened the invitation, for Elinor knew how poorly her friend would take the slight. When Mrs. Bristow asked what Elinor had received that had vexed her so, Elinor handed the invitation over, her face crimson. 

“I apologise, Mrs. Bristow,” Elinor cried at once, before the woman had an opportunity to read it. “Indeed, the most profuse apologies cannot begin to justify my aunt’s oversight, if indeed it is one. I rather think she does not wish for me to attend at all, as she must know that I cannot possibly do so without a chaperone. I will happily grant her wish!”

Mrs. Bristow examined the invitation and looked up at Elinor, a wry smile on her lips. “Oh, be assured, my dear, the slight does not bother me in the least. Mary will feel it, but fear not — I will see to it that she is diverted. No doubt you have interpreted your aunt’s intent correctly, but I think we are obliged to disappoint her.”

“I would much sooner attend the opera with you all than attend this ball out of spite,” replied Elinor. She was so looking forward to seeing Don Giovanni and would have been loath to miss the _dramma_ even if her aunt had not insulted her. 

But Mrs. Bristow insisted that this ball was an unparalleled opportunity for Elinor, and Elinor saw that the woman would be gravely displeased if she refused to go. She could not bring herself to disappoint Mrs. Bristow after all the kindness she had shown, even as the thought of attending filled her with profound unease.

“I know many people, my dear,” said Mrs. Bristow, “and am certain that at least one among my acquaintances has also been invited, and will be willing to act as your chaperone for the evening.”

It was ultimately settled that Elinor would be accompanied by a Mr. and Mrs. Shelton, though Mrs. Bristow cautioned Elinor that it was unlikely that she would find her companions either interesting or attentive. The kindest thing that Mrs. Bristow could say of the couple was that Mrs. Shelton was quite good at whist. 

Elinor allowed herself to be guided by Mrs. Bristow on which dress she should wear (the new white taffeta with vandyke points edging), and how her hair should be arranged. She knew that if she must attend, she ought to make the best of it, but she could not shake her dread, nor muster any genuine enthusiasm, though she feigned it for Mrs. Bristow’s sake. 

It did not help that Mary was sulking, though Elinor privately assured her that she would far rather go to the opera with friends than attend the ball of an aunt she scarcely knew with only perfect strangers for company. 

When all was done, Elinor had to concede that she would at least look as though she belonged, even if she did not feel it. Mrs. Bristow lent Elinor pearls for her hair and she wore the sapphire necklace and matching earrings that Mama had given her, which had belonged to Elinor’s grandmother, who died giving birth to Mama. Elinor had never looked so refined in her life, yet even this did not please her. She felt as though she were play acting — surely everyone would see through her ruse and know that she was not what she appeared. 

The Sheltons’ carriage arrived promptly to carry Elinor to her aunt’s ball, and for a moment Elinor was tempted to fabricate a stomach ache. But Mrs. Bristow touched her face and told her that she must show Lady Rossington what a jewel she truly was. Elinor felt far from a jewel, but resolved to try to do Mrs. Bristow proud.

Mr. and Mrs. Shelton spoke little in the carriage, despite Elinor’s repeated efforts to engage them. She inquired after their children, whether they were often in town, how well they knew her aunt — each question was met with only the most cursory reply from Mrs. Shelton, who made no attempt to return the courtesy. The only question she answered with any enthusiasm was whether Mrs. Shelton and Mrs. Bristow often played whist together. But when Elinor admitted she had no talent for card games, Mrs. Shelton quickly grew cold again. Mr. Shelton said almost nothing at all, and looked as though he might fall asleep.

It did not bode well for the rest of the evening, but fortunately the ride was short, and they were soon at the Rossingtons’. Elinor had not remembered how grand their house was, and was struck with the knowledge that her own father’s sister could live in this manner while she and Mama — but there was no sense indulging such thoughts, and she forced them out of her mind.

There was a small queue to greet the hostess, which gave Elinor time to fret over how her aunt would react to her presence. Would she be irritated that Elinor had circumvented her plans, or would she affect warmth and happiness?

Finally they reached Lady Rossington, who greeted the Sheltons with cold civility before looking to Elinor. 

“And who is this fetching young lady? I do not think she can be one of _your_ daughters.”

“I should have thought you would recognise your own niece, my lady,” Mrs. Shelton replied peevishly.

Lady Rossington looked astonished. She was very like Elinor’s father in appearance, tall and fair in colouring, though not as handsome as her brother had been, and her aloof manner was so unlike Papa’s.

“Hello, aunt,” Elinor said, with hollow cheer. “It has been some time since we saw each other last. I was honoured to receive your invitation.”

“Indeed,” replied Lady Rossington, who made little attempt to hide her displeasure. “You look lovely, dearest Elinor. Please do enjoy yourself.”

Lady Rossington then turned and greeted her next guests. 

A cold reception indeed! Mrs. Shelton was perturbed — no doubt she had thought that she need only shepherd Elinor to her aunt and her duties would be done. Mr. Shelton had already disappeared into the throng.

“Bound for the drink table, no doubt,” his wife observed with a pinched frown.

Elinor maintained a pleasant smile, though she could not help but feel miserable. She trailed behind Mrs. Shelton, knowing not what else to do. When it became clear that Mrs. Shelton had no intention of easing Elinor’s way into the woman’s conversations with her acquaintances, Elinor set herself apart — close enough to be observed, for propriety’s sake, though she doubted that Mrs. Shelton cared to keep an eye on her.

She recalled the names of the men Mrs. Bristow thought she ought to pursue, but she had no one to make introductions for her, so she could only hope that _someone_ would approach. Elinor thought the evening might improve when a young man asked her to dance, but his footwork left something to be desired, and his questions concerned nothing more than her connections in town. He was not interested in the fact that Lady Rossington was her aunt — Elinor took this to mean that her aunt had a reputation for being parsimonious — and though his curiosity was piqued when he learned she was staying with Mrs. Bristow, it quickly waned when he learned that she was not herself related to the woman. It was much the same with the few other men that came to speak with her. Either they were unimpressed with her connections, or offended by the fact that she was not familiar with _theirs_.

Elinor wondered how it was possible for anyone to form an attachment at a London ball. Over several conversations, she had revealed nothing of herself and said little of substance, nor did it seem that these men wished to hear anything of the kind. How could one even begin to ascertain whether a gentleman or lady was worthy of esteem in this most artificial of environments? 

Elinor grew weary with loneliness and disappointment, and felt that it would be best if she did not have to speak to another soul that night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little shorter than usual because, at long last, it is time for the narrators' paths to converge. This may be true of the next several chapters covering the Rossington ball.


	8. Sutton IV

* * *

Sutton IV

* * *

Lord Sutton could not say why he accepted the invitation to the Rossington ball. The baron was a windbag and his wife a shrew, and they were unwilling to undertake the expense of the best musicians or finest wine. Lord Rossington was also slow to repay his gaming debts, which was never an attractive quality in a host, particularly when he had the means to do so. Mrs. Dalton, who was a particular friend of Sutton’s, was bound to attend — her husband had promised Lord Rossington that she would, for her presence would assure that others would follow — yet even Mrs. Dalton said that she would not attend if she were in  _ his _ place, nor did she expect him to come for her sake. 

He was aware of the connection between Miss Hartwell and Lady Rossington, but had no expectation of the young lady being present, for she had never been in town for the season before. If he  _ had _ imagined she might be in attendance, surely he would have shunned the ball as though it were the plague, for he was resolved to forget about her.

For whatever damnable reason, he had come. 

For whatever damnable reason, Miss Hartwell was there as well. 

He spied her almost as soon as he had entered the ballroom, though she stood at quite a distance. She appeared no more pleased to be there than he was to see her there, which was to say not at all. Sutton was furious that she dare show her face  _ now _ — looking as she did, no less — when he was so close to ridding himself of her at long last. 

He went to get a glass of wine and, after drinking it swiftly, decided he would disregard her presence. Even if she was in town for the whole season, it was unlikely that their paths would cross again after tonight. He need only avoid her for the span of the evening. He  _ would  _ remain committed to his plan. 

Sutton took another glass and went to the gaming tables, but it was still early in the night. The married men had not yet escaped their wives, and the gentlemen foolish enough to be in want of a wife were still on the dance floor, seeking to charm young ladies. Only the most notorious gamblers were here already, and he did not want to throw his lot in with them.

Ultimately, Sutton’s will grew weak and he wandered back to where he had first observed Miss Hartwell from across the room, though he could not say what for. Whatever James might have to say about the virtues of steadfastness, Sutton held himself in the highest contempt.

He stole a glance at her now and again, but was frequently interrupted by greetings from the barest acquaintances, who eagerly introduced him to their daughters, sisters, and cousins. Improbably, each and every lady whom he met happened to be the most accomplished in town. He greeted them coldly and refused to engage in the idle chatter they sought to initiate, though as soon as he had rid himself of one, another followed. 

A half hour or more must have passed in this fashion, and in that time, Sutton saw no sign of Miss Hartwell’s mother, any of her friends from Darlington, or indeed of any friend at all. He was left to wonder whether she was here entirely alone. Surely her aunt had not invited Miss Hartwell to a ball at which she had no acquaintances, only to abandon her! But he could think of no other explanation for her evident unhappiness and lack of companionship. 

As resentful as he was of Miss Hartwell for presuming to inhabit the same space as he, Sutton was even more infuriated by Lady Rossington’s conduct. She was negligent at best, cruel at worst. But no one could expect any better from  _ that _ woman. 

Miss Hartwell never happened to notice  _ him _ , thankfully. He had no notion of what he would say if he was forced to greet her, and would undoubtedly default to the sardonic manner in which he had always spoken to her, which could only make her plight worse. 

Sutton was so consumed with irritation that it took him a moment to realise that Miss Greystone had come to stand at his side.

“I see you have finally beaten back the adoring hordes. But  _ what _ are you looking at, Sutton?”

He resented her informality, but did not check her. She was, after all, a “friend,” in the most liberal sense of the word. Yet the only thing that differentiated Miss Greystone from the “adoring hordes” was her vast inheritance, which permitted her to play at being part of the peerage. He knew her purpose to be the same as  _ theirs _ .

“Nothing of note.”

“You are wondering who that drab creature over there is, perhaps? She is Lady Rossington’s niece, I am told, come in from the country. One wonders why our dear hostess invited her, when the girl is so clearly out of her depth.”

Sutton could think of no reason for Miss Greystone to speak so harshly of Miss Hartwell but for the fact that he had  _ happened  _ to be looking at her. He judged her behaviour to be terribly vulgar at first, before he was forced to acknowledge that he had himself spoken of Miss Hartwell in such a manner more than once — in the presence of the lady herself — with no better justification than Miss Greystone. He appreciated for perhaps the first time how truly odious he must appear in Miss Hartwell’s eyes.

There was no more truth in Miss Greystone’s assessment than there had been in his past criticisms. Nothing about Miss Hartwell could be called drab. Certainly her gown could not rival Miss Greystone’s in its extravagance, but he had never before seen her so well-adorned in the past. To be sure, she was no better or worse dressed than the average lady present, and yet… But he refused to continue down that path. 

It might have been amusing to pique Miss Greystone’s jealousy, but Sutton had no wish to speak of Miss Hartwell any longer than necessary.

“I was trying to recall where I had seen her before.” 

“Indeed? I do wonder at the sort of company you keep,” Miss Greystone replied, with a supercilious scoff. 

“Then continue to wonder, by all means.”

“Come, you must tell, or I will have to guess.”

Sutton knew the sort of associations Miss Greystone might suggest, and felt suddenly defensive on Miss Hartwell’s behalf. 

“James’ regiment was stationed in her town,” he answered, making his annoyance plain. “I met her on occasion. Her name is Hartwell, I believe.”

“What a boon. So many prospects, one should think, for a girl of that sort. Yet no dashing husband in regimentals?”

Sutton must have reacted to this. He knew himself well enough to know that it could only have been subtle and brief, but Miss Greystone caught it all the same. If for no other reason, he had to credit her for her perceptiveness. No one could spot a slip like she could.

“There was the prospect of one?”

Sutton felt his jaw tighten but looked down at his drink and said nothing.

“Was it _ James _ ? Do not try to deny it, Sutton — I see now that it  _ was _ !” She clasped her hands delightedly. “I would not have guessed that your sweet Mr. Graham had it in him!”

He resented her feigned familiarity with James. If not for his friendship with Sutton, she would just as soon mock  _ him _ as Miss Hartwell.

“Surely there is a more worthy object of your attention. You have not even remarked on Mrs. Monroe’s absurd turban.”

Miss Greystone arched a brow at him. “You pity  _ her _ ? Now I simply  _ must _ know everything.”

It was a mistake to try and distract Miss Greystone. If Sutton wished for this to pass, the best course of action was to dance to her tune until she lost interest.

“You know me ill if you think me capable of that,” he replied, sneering. “I simply find this topic as tedious as  _ she _ is. But I will indulge you, Miss Greystone, if speaking of this amuses you.”

“Does she know of his recent engagement?”

His hold on his wine glass tightened involuntarily. “I imagine not.” 

“Someone ought to tell her, don’t you think?”

Sutton forced a smile. Perhaps Miss Greystone was trying to call his bluff. To discourage her would only prompt her to speak to Miss Hartwell. There remained a chance that she would, even if he agreed, but it was more likely that she would lose interest.

And even if she did not, was there any bluff there to call? Despite his unfortunate feelings, Miss Hartwell was now, and would always be, absolutely nothing to him. 

“I leave it to your discretion, Miss Greystone.”

Miss Greystone tapped her closed fan against her palm thoughtfully, and then nodded to herself. “Then I shall. Certainly she would wish to know what has become of her old sweetheart.”

Sutton gave an indifferent shrug, though he felt a horrible tightness in his chest. 

“Do you think there will be tears? One dearly hopes so! Lady Rossington would be so mortified. What a laugh!”

With that, Miss Greystone began to make her way across the room. 

Sutton assured himself she would not go through with it. Miss Greystone was quick to mock from a distance, but rarely did she confront anyone with her cruelty. When she did, it was usually because of some perceived offense. Though perhaps his apparent interest in Elinor had been sufficient to offend...

The music had resumed, and dancers began to fill the floor. He lost sight of Miss Greystone in the midst of this activity. 

If she persisted, Sutton was confident that Miss Hartwell would not forget herself, as Miss Greystone hoped. Even if the news wounded her, it was for the best that Miss Hartwell know that James had found love with another. Surely it would be a relief, in some respects.

Yet he knew that Miss Greystone would convey the news in the cruelest manner of which she could conceive. Even if Miss Hartwell  _ could  _ bear it, allowing it to transpire was itself a cruelty. Should he not tell her himself, simply and plainly, and leave her to contemplate it in peace? 

  
But it was too late now. Sutton saw, through the dancers on the floor, who had arranged themselves in two tidy lines, that Miss Greystone was already introducing herself. He could not intervene without it being obvious that he was doing so. Sutton felt ashamed of his cowardly inaction, even as he sought to convince himself, yet again, that Miss Hartwell’s happiness was no concern of  _ his _ .


	9. Elinor V

* * *

Elinor V

* * *

Elinor spent the better part of an hour speaking to no one, and though it had been her wish, she could not say she was any happier for it. She had known true sorrow with the loss of her father, and would never dare compare  _ that _ suffering to her present circumstances. All the same, she believed that feeling utterly alone when surrounded by scores of people must rank high on the scale of life’s lesser miseries.

To pass the time, and to try and cheer herself, she watched the couples on the floor and invented pretentious names and outlandish stories for them. She was spinning the tale of Lord Cecil Calpurnius Courtenay and Miss Antonia Allegra Abernathy’s flight to Gretna Green when someone spoke to her.

“You are Miss Hartwell, are you not?”

Elinor looked up in surprise. The voice was unfamiliar, and so too was the face. The woman was handsome and elegantly dressed, and smiled at Elinor, though she could not say whether it was kindly.

Was it possible that some acquaintance of the Earlwoods or Worthingtons had recognised her? She allowed herself to hope.

“I am. I am afraid you have me at a disadvantage — I do not know your name.”

“I am Miss Greystone. I have heard all about you from my dear friend, Lord Sutton.”

Elinor barely managed to suppress an astonished laugh. “How surprising. I am acquainted with Lord Sutton, but not well. I cannot imagine what would compel him to mention me to anyone.”

“I believe he found the whole business between you and his friend James rather amusing.”

Elinor found herself astonished, again, but no longer felt compelled to laugh. She knew Lord Sutton had a low opinion of her, but she did not imagine that he so despised her, or could be so very vindictive. It was one thing to be abrupt and rude, and quite another to share her story with people she had never met so that they might laugh at her expense. Though she had no reason to expect better of him, and indeed every reason to expect the  _ worst _ , Elinor felt betrayed. 

She took a moment to collect herself before forcing a smile. This Miss Greystone was no doubt of Lord Sutton’s ilk, and she had no intention of enduring her cruelty meekly.

“It is an unfortunate trait, I think — deriving amusement from the unhappiness of others. It speaks to a meanness of spirit that I find most unbecoming.”

Miss Greystone’s lip curled. “Well said, my dear.  _ I _ did not find it amusing in the least. I do feel for you. It must be difficult to be… how to put this delicately…  _ jilted _ . But it is fortunate, at least, that Mr. Graham has gone on to find happiness.”

Part of Elinor wanted to retort that while she may have been “jilted,” James had been the one in love with  _ her _ . But that would be ungenerous to James, and was undoubtedly the kind of ill-considered response that Miss Greystone hoped to elicit. Elinor was disappointed with herself for having even thought it.

“Yes, it was very fortunate that his estate was restored to him. There is no one more deserving.”

“No, I was referring to his recent engagement. To his brother’s widow. Did you not know?”

Elinor did not. She felt her pleasant countenance slip. More than that, she felt as if the whole room had gone silent, and the air had been driven from her lungs. 

James was engaged. To  _ Amelia  _ of all people. 

Miss Greystone wore an expression of insincere sympathy. “Oh dear. You  _ didn’t _ know. How thoughtless of me.”

“Not at all,” Elinor heard herself say. “What lovely news. How good of you to share it. Please excuse me.”

With that, Elinor began making her way blindly along the perimeter of the room, all thoughts of remaining near to Mrs. Shelton forgotten. 

She was relieved that a social instinct had preserved her from utter humiliation, but did not know for how much longer she could behave as if nothing was amiss. James was engaged, and so soon! Perhaps she had no right to be injured by the news, but she felt it keenly. It was not that she wished for him to pine forever, or never love again — far from it — but it had scarcely been any time at all! For the past months, she had fretted over him almost every day.  _ He  _ had professed himself to be in love, yet how soon after they parted had he ceased to think of her at all? Was she so unremarkable that she had not left any mark on him, and was so easily replaced? 

How desperately Elinor longed to go home! Not to Mayfair, but far away from town, where casual cruelty appeared to pass for sophistication. To Darlington, to Mama. Oh, to be back in her parlour, her woods, her—

Elinor was so lost in her thoughts that she hardly noticed those around her, but the sight of  _ him _ pulled her immediately from her reverie.

It was Lord Sutton. Of course he was here. Of course he was behind  _ this _ , as he had been behind every event that had caused her unhappiness in recent memory. Never before in her life had she despised anyone as much as she did him!

Their eyes met before she could devise a plan to avoid him. Elinor braced herself for his approach. There was little he could do to make this evening worse, but she feared what he might say all the same.

But he did not draw any nearer. Lord Sutton regarded her for a moment with a dour expression, and then turned away without so much as a nod.

Though Elinor had no wish to speak to him, the fact that he did not deign to even acknowledge her made her feel even more wretched than before. 


	10. Sutton V

* * *

Sutton V

* * *

It had been a mistake. Lord Sutton should never have allowed it.

He had failed miserably in his effort to remain indifferent to her suffering. How had he imagined that he could ever endure it? The sight of her standing alone had disturbed him; how had he thought that the sight of her being baited and mocked would not move him?

Sutton resolved not to speak to Miss Greystone again this evening — he knew he would not be able to forbear answering her cruelty in kind, and though it was well deserved, the better part of the blame laid with  _ him _ .

He could not hear the conversation between them from where he stood, but there was no mistaking the moment that Miss Hartwell learned the news of James’ engagement. She appeared as though someone had struck her. His own reaction was visceral, as well.

Miss Hartwell soon recovered, and spoke again briefly before turning away. She was heading towards him, unwittingly. She appeared near to tears and more intensely unhappy than he had ever seen her before. 

And then she saw him, and froze. 

If Sutton had thought he could be of any comfort to her, he would have approached. But he saw how she shifted her gaze away the moment they met eyes, and how her shoulders sagged, as if in resignation to a fate she could scarcely bear to face. 

Of course Miss Hartwell did not wish to speak to him. She likely blamed him for the entire episode, and she was not wrong to do so. 

He would not make this evening any more unpleasant for her. He removed himself at once from her path. 

Sutton headed towards the next room, nodding greetings at acquaintances. He was bristling with anxious energy and could not bring himself to engage in conversation. He could not shake the look on her face from his thoughts. 

She thought him the devil. 

He could not deny that he was a rake of the first order. It had been one thing to cause her to suffer discourtesy when she was surrounded by her friends and family, and bolstered by James’ unshakable admiration. He should never have permitted her to be wounded  _ here _ , where she was without support of any kind. 

He knew he must do something to mitigate her suffering. His wish to forget her was well and good, but it would only be more difficult to do so if he left her to suffer now. 

Any aid could not appear to come from him, or Miss Hartwell would naturally distrust it. Yet he knew not where to turn, for he saw no true friends of his in attendance. Almost anyone present would be willing to oblige a request from him, but there would be whispers, gossip, conjecture… He had no wish to endure that himself, nor would he subject Miss Hartwell to the speculation that would surround her if he appeared to take an interest. 

It was then that he saw Mrs. Dalton. He was generally not a man to rush, but he hastened to her and gestured impatiently for her to rid herself of her companions.

Mrs. Dalton excused herself from the women with whom she was speaking with a wry smile. 

“You look as though you are a man who has been lost at sea,” she quipped. “Has it been so very dismal without me, my lord?”

“I require a favour.”

She arched a brow at his urgency. “A favour?” 

“The use of your carriage.”

“You mean to make your escape? But I have only just arrived! And where is  _ yours _ ?”

“It is not for me.”

“Oh?”

Sutton hesitated. He knew he could trust in Mrs. Dalton’s discretion, but was reluctant to reveal his concern for Miss Hartwell. It was burden enough to know himself capable of such folly, and that James should know it, too — that he should have to endure Mrs. Dalton’s teasing on top of it all was insupportable.

But his sense of honour, dubious though it might be, demanded that he act, and at last he brought himself to speak. 

“Lady Rossington’s niece has been a victim of Miss Greystone. I failed to intervene when I should have done.”

Mrs. Dalton pouted. “Lady Rossington has a niece? Why haven’t I heard of her? I _am_ meant to know everyone.”

“No doubt you recall that Lady Rossington’s father gambled away the family fortune, and that she managed to marry well before the extent of their ruin became known. Her only brother went on to live a quiet life in the country. The lady in question is his daughter.”

“They are poor, I suppose?”

“Lady Rossington's brother is dead. But yes, his family is not well-off.”

“I am surprised that Lady Rossington invited the girl, in that case. She is the sort who would sooner forget less fortunate relations than attempt to do anything for them.”

Sutton scowled. “It would have been better if she had not. Lady Rossington has taken no pains to acquaint the young lady with anyone present. Miss Hartwell appears to know no one but her aunt and myself, and I… I am not one to whom she would turn. I can only assume she has no means of escape, for I doubt she would remain if she had.”

“You seem to know a great deal about this ‘Miss Hartwell’ and her family,” observed Mrs. Dalton, amused. “May I ask why you have taken such an interest in her tribulations?”

Sutton refused to behave as though she had found him out — though she  _ had _ , or soon would, damn her to hell.

“I believe I mentioned to you that James had formed a serious attachment when his regiment was stationed in Hertfordshire.”

Mrs. Dalton’s eyes lit up. “It was Miss Hartwell, I presume?”

“Yes.” 

“I see. And you would like  _ me _ to come to her rescue? You do not wish to play the gallant yourself?”

“It cannot come from me. She distrusts me, with good cause.”

“Oh, Sutton, I am sure you are mistaken — it simply cannot be possible that anyone should not think well of  _ you _ !” cried Mrs. Dalton with a droll laugh. 

When Sutton’s grave expression did not waver, Mrs. Dalton’s levity fell away. She nodded.

“You may be assured that your name will not pass my lips. I  _ will _ require further explanation in due course, but I would not leave your Miss Hartwell in prolonged distress. Where can I find her?”

“She is not  _ my _ Miss Hartwell. And she appeared to retreat to the corridor. You might tell her that you—”

Mrs. Dalton waved him off. “Leave all that to me, Sutton. I will see the damsel safely away.”

Sutton nodded his gratitude, for he feared that any verbal response would only incriminate him further. 


	11. Elinor VI

* * *

Elinor VI

* * *

Elinor wondered whether time had ever before passed as slowly as on this night. She felt pathetic hiding out in the corridor, and could only imagine what Mrs. Bristow would say if she could see her now. No doubt she would never pronounce Elinor a “jewel” again. 

But Elinor could not go back to the rooms where people were gathered. She had a tenuous mastery over her emotions here, alone, but she doubted whether she would be able to remain composed if forced to endure _his_ presence again — even if he continued to behave as though they were perfect strangers. 

Perhaps Elinor would be fortunate and Mr. Shelton would soon be so drunk that they must leave. Another carriage ride with the Sheltons seemed a small price to pay for freedom. 

And to think, before this night, Elinor had rather enjoyed a ball!

She could not help but think of Papa, who dreaded them. Elinor had not been out in society for very long before he died, but on more than one occasion she had noticed his absence at the Worthingtons’ balls, only to discover that he was hiding away in their library.

Papa was always contrite when she discovered him, as if she were his governess and had found him shirking his lessons. 

“Well, then, Elinor, you have found me out again,” he had said on one such occasion, reluctantly setting aside a great leather tome. “What shall my punishment be?”

“I shall report you to Mama forthwith,” she answered.

“Hamlet had it wrong, I think. ‘ _Cruelty_ , thy name is woman!’”

In the end, she had left Papa to his solitude, and feigned ignorance when Mama asked whether Elinor knew where her father had got to. 

Elinor smiled at this recollection, even as it made her heart ache. What she would not give to have had him at her side tonight! He was not a man who relished confrontation, so she was not sure whether he would have risen to her defense, but his presence would have been comfort enough. They might have hidden in the Rossingtons’ library together. 

If she had more nerve, Elinor would have sought out the library alone, but she feared being questioned by a servant. So she remained where she was.

Elinor had resorted to counting floor tiles when she saw a figure approach. She was sitting on a bench just beyond the door to the ladies’ retiring room, so it was not unusual for her to see others in the corridor, but none had seemed to concern themselves with her.

The woman was _not_ Miss Greystone, thankfully, and Elinor doubted Lord Sutton was so persistent that he would send another friend to bedevil her.

When she drew closer, Elinor saw that the woman’s dress was crimson and she had a lovely face and golden hair adorned with a silver circlet laden with rubies and diamonds. She was very much like Elinor imagined Isolde must have looked.

“My dear, you will forgive my intrusion, but you look quite unwell. Might I be of service?”

After being met with coldness at every turn, this gesture so astonished and touched Elinor that she feared she might begin to cry. She cleared her throat and composed herself.

“You are very kind, but I am quite well, thank you.”

“I see that you are not.”

“I appreciate your solicitude very much, but I would not wish to impose,” Elinor replied, though with less conviction. She assumed that would be an end to it, but the woman was undeterred.

“I assure you that it would be no imposition at all. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Mrs. Dalton.”

Elinor rose and curtsied. “And I am Miss Hartwell. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

“And yet you do not look pleased,” jested Mrs. Dalton. “Shall I keep you company until you feel well enough to find a friend or guardian? Or I could fetch a servant.”

“You need not do either, Mrs. Dalton, though your generosity is very touching. I assure you I am not ill, however I may appear.”

The woman smiled. “Oh? Then why are you seated out here alone? Surely you cannot have been in want of partners.”

Elinor could not help but laugh bitterly. “You would be surprised, ma’am. I am ashamed to say it, but I am biding my time until I may leave.”

“Is the ball so dull? I myself have only just arrived.”

“No, I am certain you will not find it so,” Elinor answered promptly. She could not bring herself to disparage the event, whatever she may think of her aunt. “My circumstances are peculiar, I assure you. Please do enjoy yourself.”

She once again expected Mrs. Dalton to excuse herself, but the woman sat on the bench, her head inclined inquisitively. 

Elinor hesitated for a moment before relenting and sitting down beside Mrs. Dalton. “I received… _difficult_ news from a stranger. It appeared that this person’s motive was to revel in the distress it would cause me.”

Mrs. Dalton looked intrigued and sidled closer. “How dreadful! I will not press for particulars, of course, but I wonder — how did this stranger come to know of this painful news, or of you?”

Normally, Elinor would not bare her feelings to a perfect stranger, but she was so very weary and so gratified by the woman’s kindness that she could not help but speak.

“I am acquainted with her friend, who has detested me from the moment we met — without cause! I do not mean to suggest that it is impossible that I should cause offense, or give one cause to dislike me, but I have reflected on my conduct towards him and truly do not know what it is I did to deserve his unmitigated contempt.”

“Is it not possible that he is a misanthrope, and simply detests everyone?”

“His behaviour would not offend me if it were so, but he is not ill-mannered to all. Nor is he supercilious to those beneath his station as a matter of course. His best friend is no better situated than I — or he was not for quite some time, though his fortunes have since improved. He was civil enough to my mother, to others in our circle…”

“I see,” Mrs. Dalton replied, her lips pursed. “How very, very disappointing.”

“Our acquaintanceship is at an end. We have not seen one another in months, and are unlikely to ever be in the same company again. He could have left me alone, yet…” Elinor realised how her voice had risen in passion and took a breath to compose herself. “Forgive me. You do not know me at all. This cannot possibly be of interest.”

Mrs. Dalton touched her arm reassuringly. “I assure you, this is of much greater interest to me than anything in the ballroom.”

“No, indeed — I am ashamed that I have kept you from the merriment. You may well suppose that the man is justified in his condemnation of me, when I have spoken so unreservedly.”

“Reserve is a virtue, I suppose, but it can be so exceedingly dull. I am on your side, my dear. Decidedly so. What is this gentleman’s name — though he is undeserving of the title! If I know him, I will chide him on your behalf!”

Elinor was not certain of whether Mrs. Dalton spoke in jest or not, for she had a droll manner, but she shook her head. “I do not think I will never see him again after this night, and certainly hope I shall not. And the greatest kindness you could show me is to forget all that we have spoken of, and to repeat it to no one.”

“Is there no one to whom you might turn for solace?” asked Mrs. Dalton. “Surely you are not here alone?”

“I am chaperoned by the Sheltons, though I hardly know them. I cannot possibly confide in them, nor expect any sympathy. My aunt is here, as well, but she is otherwise occupied, and her husband… I am sure he would not trouble himself for my sake.”

If her aunt had not recognised her, Elinor was certain Lord Rossington would not — and she was not sure she would know _him_ from Adam.

“What could be of greater importance than a niece’s distress?” Mrs. Dalton queried with a frown.

Elinor hesitated. “My aunt and uncle are our hosts.”

“I see. You will forgive my saying so, but I do not think that excuses the Rossingtons’ inattention.”

Elinor might have remarked that the duties of a host are many, and that they must be forgiven for failing to notice the unhappiness of one guest. But she did not feel obliged to defend her aunt after the discourtesy she had been shown, even if she could not bring herself to openly censure her.

“It would have been better if I had not come,” Elinor finally replied.

“The solution is simple: You must take my carriage. I have only just arrived, and will not have need of it for some time.”

“I couldn’t possibly,” Elinor protested weakly, though she wanted nothing more than to accept. She could have embraced Mrs. Dalton for the offer.

“Nonsense. It is settled. I will arrange it now. Go now and make your excuses to your chaperones, and to your aunt, if you wish.”

Elinor thanked her profusely and went at once to find Mrs. Shelton, who appeared irritated at the intrusion.

“I am unwell, Mrs. Shelton, but a friend has offered me use of her carriage. I will leave you now.”

When Mrs. Shelton inquired who this person was, and learned it was Mrs. Dalton, she was furious.

“You did not say you were friends with Mrs. Dalton. Whyever did you not introduce me?”

It was not a surprise to Elinor that Mrs. Dalton was a woman of consequence, for she certainly looked the part. She was, by now, tried beyond all patience, and could not keep herself from responding sharply. “I did not know Mrs. Dalton before this night, yet _she_ showed me kindness when none other did.”

She turned away without another word, and went to meet Mrs. Dalton on the front steps of the house. Elinor had not thought it necessary to bid goodbye to her aunt, who could neither notice nor care that she was gone.

Elinor was almost giddy with relief when Mrs. Dalton’s carriage pulled into view. 

“I shall not soon forget your kindness, Mrs. Dalton!” she cried. 

The woman smiled and took Elinor’s hand with a wistful expression. “It will sound strange, my dear, but I rather envy you.”

“ _Envy_ me?”

“I have not been so roused by the events of a ball as you are tonight in many years. I doubt I have been so roused by _anything_ in that time. I do envy you the passion of your feelings.”

Elinor grew crimson. “I think you mean to say that I have made myself ridiculous.”

“No, no, you misunderstand me entirely. I—” But Mrs. Dalton seemed mindful that the carriage was waiting and shook her head. “Never mind, Miss — what is your Christian name, Miss Hartwell?”

Elinor supplied it sheepishly. 

“I am sure we will speak again anon, Elinor.”

Elinor thought Mrs. Dalton must be sparing her feelings, and doubted that she had any wish to see Elinor again. She was disappointed that this consequential woman should think ill of her, but was still in better spirits now than she had been in hours.

She stared out the window during the carriage ride, thoughts of James and Lord Sutton, and what she wished she could say to each, circling in her head. When the carriage door closed behind her, and her ordeal was truly and finally over, Elinor could keep her tears at bay no longer.


	12. Sutton VI

* * *

Sutton VI

* * *

“Your efforts tonight were certainly… animated,” declared Mrs. Dalton, with a breathless, shivering laugh. "How lucky for me that you chose to attend after all! Though perhaps, despite _my_ efforts tonight, you do not think this night was lucky for _you_."

Lord Sutton was too stupefied in the immediate aftermath of their lovemaking to respond, but realised, after a moment, that there was an insinuation in Mrs. Dalton’s tone.

Sutton chose not to entertain it. They had removed to his lodgings after the ball, and it had been his sincere hope that they would be too occupied with more pleasurable activities to speak of what had transpired.

It seemed he would not be so fortunate. He leaned over to the table beside his bed, grabbed the bottle there, and poured a glass of port, which he offered first to Mrs. Dalton.

She propped herself up on her elbows but shook her head at the offer, so Sutton sipped it instead.

Mrs. Dalton was smiling deviously. “You really thought you could use your masculine wiles to distract  _ me _ , Sutton? Tut-tut. I will not be put off the scent for long.”

“I cannot begin to imagine what you are talking about,” he replied. He knew not why Mrs. Dalton was intent on spoiling the perfect conclusion to this horrid evening with such talk. He would have gladly gone to sleep instead.

“Oh indeed?” she replied. 

Mrs. Dalton picked absentmindedly at a loose thread on the edge of Sutton’s bedsheet before she spoke again. “I liked Elinor. You did badly, treating her as you have done, even if she can bear it.”

He was surprised to hear Mrs. Dalton use Miss Hartwell’s given name, though no doubt it was a tactic to see him undone.

“Yes, yes, I consider myself rebuked. Are you finished?”

“Not remotely. I did say that I would require explanation, and I now demand satisfaction.”

“You received satisfaction already,” he retorted slyly, and Mrs. Dalton swatted his arm.

“There is little to tell,” he answered finally. “I behaved badly, as you have said. My abominable rudeness to her was without cause. Are you satisfied, my dear confessor, or will self-flagellation be required?”

“Not required, though I am unlikely to object to it,” answered Mrs. Dalton with a laugh, though her expression soon grew serious. “It was not without cause, however silly the cause may have been. You can be such a schoolboy, Sutton — thank heavens you do not make love like one.”

He sipped his drink resentfully and said nothing. How could a man possibly respond to  _ that _ observation without making himself appear more foolish in the process? 

“You played some part in her break with James, yes?” asked Mrs. Dalton, turning onto her side to face him and drawing the bedsheets up over her breasts.

Sutton admitted that he had, and explained the circumstances briefly. Mrs. Dalton did not seem surprised in the least when he reluctantly confessed himself to be in love with Elinor. 

Mrs. Dalton chewed her lip. “It was for the best that you admitted your ‘feelings’ to one of them, but I wonder at your choice of James.”

“Because you think I would be benefitted by Miss Hartwell’s scorn?” demanded Sutton. “It is little surprise that  _ you _ should prefer the alternative where I am laughed at.”

“I cannot believe that she would laugh at you — as much as you might deserve it.” Mrs. Dalton reached over and placed her hand on his forearm. “You would be benefitted by facing the consequences of your behaviour for once, Sutton.”

“I have done,” he replied harshly. 

It was easy enough for Mrs. Dalton to dismiss what he had endured, and suppose that he was perfectly content while poor Miss Hartwell languished. No doubt her time at the ball had been unpleasant, but in the grand scheme of things he was certain that she must have fared better than either he or James, for she had loved neither! 

“Your only offense to James was being unkind to the woman he cared for. No, Sutton — you chose the path of least resistance.”

“So what if I have? Is that not my prerogative, as a man of leisure?”

“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Dalton, growing impatient herself. “But do not expect that you will always have friends ready and willing to do the decent thing in your stead.”

Sutton did not think she was in the right, but did not want to quarrel with Mrs. Dalton. She was among the few people in the world whose good opinion he valued. 

“What would you have me do? It is over now.”

“Perhaps.”

“Is that all you have to say?  _ ‘Perhaps’ _ ?”

She sat up and assumed a pedantic tone. “I have found, with my Anthony, that it is often best to point out what he has done wrong and leave him to contemplate it in peace, rather than to force him to correct the action in a particular manner. His apologies are more sincere, and his actions more meaningful and less resentful, when he chooses to make them of his own volition.”

“I am not a young boy, Mrs. Dalton, and you are decidedly not  _ my _ mother.”

“Yes, thank goodness for that.” Mrs. Dalton sighed and rose to retrieve her various undergarments that were strewn across the floor. “I should be going.”

“Why? Will Mr. Dalton note your absence?”

“No, of course not— I could be away a week and Gregory would not remark on it,” she replied with a scoff, pulling her chemise over her head, and then her corset. “Help me, won’t you?”

He began lacing it, before bending to kiss the pale skin of her back. She shrugged away from him.

“No, Sutton, that will not work,” Mrs. Dalton replied, laughing good-naturedly. “We have had our fun; I am determined that you must sit with your discomfort now.”

He scowled and finished lacing the corset. 

“I have sat with my discomfort for many months and have not once considered speaking to Miss Hartwell. Do you truly suppose your admonishment will change my mind?”

“A great many things are possible in this world, my lord,” she said philosophically, pulling on her stockings. 

Mrs. Dalton finished redressing and came back to the side of the bed. She brushed the dark hair from Sutton’s forehead and kissed it tenderly. 

“I know you are unhappy now, but I am quite sure that this will be good for you, no matter how it ends.”

“Off with you,” he replied, grumbling.

But Mrs. Dalton’s words stayed with Sutton, and he was not able to fall asleep for some hours, as exhausted as his body was.


	13. Elinor VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A long one, and finally a conversation between Elinor and Sutton.

* * *

Elinor VII

* * *

Elinor was in bed when Mrs. Bristow and the Earlwoods arrived home from the opera. She overheard the maid, Sophie, inform them that Elinor had already been home for some time, and heard Mrs. Bristow wonder aloud at this — “Normally Mr. Shelton will not be prevailed upon to leave until the servants chase him out with a broom!”

When Mary came into the room they shared and saw that Elinor was still awake, she at once began recounting how _very wonderful_ the orchestra had been; how _talented_ the singers were; how they had met the _most diverting_ young ladies, the Miss Vernons; and how _very eager_ she was to see them again. She did not inquire once about the ball.

Elinor knew that Mary was still resentful that she had been snubbed by Lady Rossington, but she was in no humour to offer comfort under the circumstances. When Mary began to recount all the terribly amusing things Miss Vanessa Vernon had said to her, Elinor told her sharply that she was very tired and wished to sleep, which only deepened Mary’s resentment.

When she awoke the next morning, after a fitful night, Elinor was sorry that she had been so abrupt with her friend. She would have been envious if she were in Mary’s position, and there was no way Mary could have known how truly dreadful the ball had been.

Mary received her apology coldly at first, but after Elinor confessed all that had happened, she was stunned and repentant. Mary declared Mr. Graham faithless and Lord Sutton a villain. She insisted that Elinor must tell Mrs. Bristow that she had led Elinor utterly astray by convincing her to go to the Rossingtons’ ball.

Elinor was reluctant to do so, for were it not for Lord Sutton, the evening would have merely been unpleasant. She was also mindful of how indebted she was to Mrs. Bristow. Yet Mary declared that if Elinor would not, she _would_.

Thus, at breakfast that morning, Elinor spoke sheepishly of how the Sheltons and her aunt had treated her and how she had ultimately managed to escape, and admitted that she did not think that the ball had provided any advantage. Mrs. Bristow was dismayed to hear that Mrs. Shelton had been so negligent, and found it incredible that Lady Rossington could show so little regard for her own niece — “and she, an orphan no less!” (Elinor was obliged to remind Mrs. Bristow that she had a mother yet living.)

“If it is a comfort, my dear, I will throw the next game of whist in which I am partnered with Mrs. Shelton — that is the greatest possible revenge one could exact,” Mrs. Bristow declared. “And you may rest assured that I will never again send one of my lambs into a wolf’s den without my protection! But I must object to your claim that the ball provided no advantage. Your suffering will have been worthwhile if Mrs. Dalton should choose to call!”

Apparently, Mrs. Dalton’s husband, though not a member of the peerage, was an enormously important man in politics, and Mrs. Dalton was herself the granddaughter of an earl.

Elinor was comforted by Mrs. Bristow’s vow, but nevertheless resolved to trust her own counsel — she would not allow herself to be convinced to attend any function in the future if she felt it unwise.

Later that morning, Mary’s new friends Miss Vanessa and Violet Vernon called. After Mary’s effusive description, Elinor was surprised to find them both dull and haughty. They spoke of all the balls they had already attended, as early in the season as it was, and who had been there and what they had worn. Elinor tried at first to be engaging, but the Miss Vernons did not seem to warm to her, and directed most of their conversation to Mary. She wondered whether it was because they had discovered that she had little wealth. It did not seem to Elinor that Mary noticed their cold treatment of her — though perhaps, after last night, Elinor was merely being over-sensitive. 

Mrs. Dalton did not make an appearance or send any invitation that day, which disappointed Mrs. Bristow, though not Elinor. She would be happy to meet Mrs. Dalton again in the future (though she had no expectation of it), but feared that seeing the woman again so soon would only stir up the emotions of the previous evening. Elinor was doing her best not to brood over her wounds.

After all, James had been entirely lost to her before last night. She need not allow what she had learned to colour her view of the past or her own self-regard. Yet this was easier said than done. Elinor's pride got the best of her, and she decided that it was likely that Amelia had duped James — that he was not truly in love with her, but merely believed himself to be because Amelia had pretended to be something that she was not. Though it was cold comfort indeed to think that such a good man was being deceived, it was easier for Elinor to believe that Mr. Graham had been led astray than that he could have found a true love match so soon. 

The next day, after breakfast and before calling hours, Mary wanted to go to Wood, the ladies’ shoe store, to be fitted for new slippers, for that was where the Miss Vernons bought _theirs_. Elinor was satisfied with her current footwear and begged leave to stay behind. In truth, she was eager for a few uninterrupted hours at the pianoforte. Playing had always settled her spirits, and she had not had the opportunity to spend much time on her music since arriving in town. 

She had practised her scales and turned to a moderately difficult piece when Sophie rushed into the room.

“A gentleman is here for you, miss!”

Elinor turned from the piano, bewildered by the intrusion. “For me, Sophie? Are you sure? Did he give you his card?”

It was not yet ten in the morning, and she doubted any man she had met liked her well enough to call, much less before the customary hours. But perhaps... Elinor’s heart leapt at the thought that it might be Christopher, at long last. It was unlikely, no doubt — last she heard, he was meant to be in Spain — but he may yet be back in England and in contact with Lady Rossington! Perhaps her aunt had mentioned Elinor’s presence in London to him. Perhaps he had resolved to seek her out. Her mind immediately raced with a dozen thoughts. How would he look? What would he say? It had been so long…

“No, miss, but he gave his name.” Sophie’s voice became a reverential whisper. “He said he’s a lord, miss. Lord Sutton.”

Elinor was too surprised to be disappointed. 

“It cannot be!”

Sophie replied meekly that she was quite sure that the man had said that was his name.

“Of course, Sophie, forgive me. And you are certain that he asked to see _me_?”

“Yes, miss. Shall I tell him you’re not receiving?” Sophie sounded so frightened of turning a lord away that Elinor took pity on her.

“No, I suppose you may show him in.”

Elinor remained on the piano bench, dumbfounded. She could not imagine what Lord Sutton could possibly have to say to her now. Was her humiliation at the Rossingtons’ ball not enough to satisfy him? 

Lord Sutton entered the room with an inscrutable expression. He cut a fine figure, as he always did, and she felt self-conscious about being seen in her worn blue muslin.

Elinor rose to her feet and curtsied. “Good morning, Lord Sutton. I am afraid my host, Mrs. Bristow, and the Earlwoods are out presently.”

“I am not here to call upon the Earlwoods or Mrs. Bristow, as you well know.”

Elinor’s expression must have betrayed her unease; Lord Sutton smirked.

“You were playing when I arrived. I am sorry that I disturbed you.”

“You need not apologise.” She gestured to the divan opposite the piano bench, but Lord Sutton did not take the invitation. She sat again and folded her hands in her lap. She supposed she should ask him how he was faring, or where he was staying, but found herself unable to manage even basic pleasantries. Nor did she feel that he deserved any such effort, even if he _was_ a viscount.

“It was a Pleyel sonatina, I believe. You play with remarkable skill — particularly as your formal training, if any, must have been minimal.”

Lord Sutton had only ever spoken to her with indifference or contempt, so even an oblique compliment left her even more flustered than before. 

“Thank you. You are kind to say so.”

“I am not, but I suppose false modesty is required of young ladies,” he replied. “I have been impressed by your musical ability since I first heard you play at Birkenbridge. James had spoken of it, of course, but he has neither an ear nor any passion for music.”

This was true — Mr. Graham was as impressed by a simple Irish air as he was by Beethoven or Schubert. She had found it endearing, though there had been times when she had managed a difficult piece with aplomb and his mild enthusiasm was disappointing.

“You are fond of music, Lord Sutton? I suppose _you_ have had some training.” The truth was that he had a wonderful voice, one of the finest she had ever heard, but she was not disposed to praise him.

“I know you do not care to know the answer, nor is there any reason that you should. You wonder why I have come to see you. You have no desire to see me, certainly.”

Elinor resolved not to allow herself to be shaken by his directness; she would answer him in kind.

“ _You_ have always seemed vexed by _me_ , Lord Sutton. I admit I find it odd that you should seek me out now, when it seems unlikely that our paths should ever cross again — and when you avoided me when last they did.”

She was surprised to find him more embarrassed than exultant.

“I am aware of Mr. Graham’s recent engagement,” Elinor continued. She took the hand-copied sheet music and put it back into order as a pretense for not facing him as she spoke. “As you know, I had the news from your friend Miss Greystone. I believe it was your idea that she disclose the news after feigning sympathy over how I had been jilted.”

Elinor ventured a glance at him and saw his brow arch at the term. Her face grew warm. 

“‘Jilted’ was Miss Greystone’s word, not mine,” Elinor added hastily. She forced herself to face him again. “Mr. Graham made no promises. He is free to marry whomever he pleases.”

“James made a show of his feelings. In a small town, I expect that amounts to almost as much as a promise.”

“You sound as though you condemn his conduct,” she said, her inflection caught somewhere between a statement and a question. 

“I cannot condemn him for his nature. He has never been able to conceal his emotions. He would wish for you to know that what you saw was genuinely felt. _I_ would have you know that I did not urge Miss Greystone to approach you, though I could have done more to prevent it. I regret that you had to learn of James’ engagement in such a manner, on what was, by all appearances, already a trying evening for you.”

Being consoled by Lord Sutton of all people was too much to endure. “Forgive me if I cannot muster the customary obsequiousness, but _why_ are you here?”

“I feel obliged to offer an explanation for James’ conduct.”

Not an apology, then. Elinor was hardly surprised.

“Did he ask you to speak to me?”

“No.”

She hoped her face did not betray her disappointment. Of course he had not. Mr. Graham had no cause to think of her any longer. 

“Very well, then. Say your piece, Lord Sutton, and I will listen.”

“When last you spoke, what did James say to you?” Lord Sutton asked. He had moved towards the window, and his back was turned to her as he spoke.

“I thought you came to offer _me_ an explanation,” Elinor replied curtly. “If you wish to know what Mr. Graham said, why do you not ask _him_? I did not think he had any secrets from you, and cannot believe that he did not already tell you.”

Lord Sutton turned to face her, but did not venture an answer. It was apparent that he found the situation trying, though she could not imagine why it would be for _him_. Still, she felt some pity.

“It was difficult to speak of it even with Miss Earlwood, who is my oldest friend. You can imagine how much more difficult it must be to discuss the situation with _you_.”

“I understand, and will provide the explanation I promised, Miss Hartwell. I ask only that you indulge my curiosity in this respect.” 

Oddly, Elinor believed him, and relented.

“I have no reason to believe that Mr. Graham would not wish for me to tell you,” she said, and recounted their conversation.

She sounded strangely dispassionate in the telling of it, but her hands trembled. Lord Sutton merely nodded.

“Was it your doing?” Elinor asked. It was bluntly put, but Lord Sutton did not appear taken aback. 

“I cannot deny that, at one time, I questioned whether his feelings for you were prudent.”

“I know. There is no harm in telling you now: I overheard your discussion of me that day at Birkenbridge, when we went on an outing and I turned back before the rest of the party. I did not intend to. I hardly needed to eavesdrop to know your opinion of me, but I suppose I ought to have made my presence known.”

She was not truly sorry. Nor did Lord Sutton appear to be. There was neither shame nor repentance in Lord Sutton’s expression; he met her gaze steadfastly.

“After that conversation at Birkenbridge, I said nothing with the intent of persuading him against marrying you.” His tone was earnest, free of disdain or superiority. He lowered his eyes and added, in a softer tone, “You did not say — Did he mention _me_ when you last spoke?”

“Why should he have done?”

“Miss Hartwell, _please_.”

She felt pleased at having the indomitable Lord Sutton at her mercy. 

“In passing, yes.”

“Will you tell me _what_ he said?”

“You assume that I remember.”

“I can see that you do.”

“Yes, I _do_ ,” Elinor admitted, for she felt she had drawn things out long enough. “He said that if you knew that you were in love after so brief a time, then there was no reason why _I_ should not know after the months he and I had been acquainted. He then requested that I forget that he had spoken of you at all. I could scarcely make sense of why he had mentioned it at all, and still cannot. Your feelings and mine have nothing to do with one another.” 

Lord Sutton met her eye again, and she thought she saw a flash of panic, but it was just as soon gone. 

“You could have lied to him. Most in your situation would have done.”

“You have a poor opinion of my sex, Lord Sutton, or perhaps only those of us you perceive as poor. Since we are speaking frankly, I will admit that I would have married him if he had asked me without demanding a declaration of love, but I would never willfully deceive him.”

“It is difficult to lie to James. I myself have never managed it for long — and then, only with great difficulty.”

“Will you intervene?” Elinor asked. 

“Pardon?”

Elinor coloured — it was not tactfully put — but did not look away. “Not on my behalf. I do not harbour any hopes. I care for him, however, and wish to see him happy — to know he is happy, that is, even if I am never to see him again. I do not think Miss Thorpe — Mrs. Graham, rather — can truly love him. You know her past conduct as well as I. If you doubted _my_ love for Mr. Graham, surely you must doubt _hers_. Will you not speak to him? Will you persuade him not to act in haste? There is no kinder man, no man worthier of happiness.”

Lord Sutton straightened, with an expression of profound compunction. “I thought — Have you — do you now believe yourself to be in love with him?”

Elinor knew it was for his friend’s sake, and not her own, that Lord Sutton looked so contrite, but it touched her all the same. “No, you need not fear. Nothing has changed in that respect. Some fundamental defect in my person prevents it. Perhaps you perceived that from the start.”

“I had no intuition that you would injure James, and will not seek to justify myself by pretending that I had.”

“What, then, prompted your rancor, and your intercession?”

“As I told you, I did not try to intercede, or persuade him against marrying you. Nor would I interfere now, whatever my opinion of Amelia may be.”

“You must have said _something_ to make him doubt me. Whatever your motive may have been, and however unjust your assessment of my character might have been, you _were_ right to caution him. I would have been wrong to accept Mr. Graham’s proposal. I see that clearly now. I was not ill-intentioned, and was far from indifferent, but the consequences would have been no less painful than if I had been both.”

“That should be a comfort,” Lord Sutton said quietly, more to himself than to her.

“I do not say this to ease your conscience, but to spur you to action! Is it not possible that Mrs. Graham is motivated not by love, but by self-interest? I do not condemn her. Her situation is pitiable, regardless of how she behaved in the past. It seems unjust that a fortune that once belonged to her should not revert to her after her husband’s death, though I admit that I was happy for Mr. Graham to have it. 

“But all that is beside the point. I mean only to say that she has many reasons besides affection to marry Mr. Graham. If it is not obvious that her feelings are sincere — if there is any doubt at all — do you not feel obliged to repeat the admonition you made before? Will you not urge him to be cautious?” 

“There was no admonition.”

Elinor’s patience was running thin. “Whatever you wish to call it, I do not believe that James would have reconsidered his proposal if you did not speak to him!”

“I did speak to him. But you have asked me to repeat what I said before _now_ , to deter _this_ match, and I cannot,” Lord Sutton said, his tone measured, and his gaze on her intent. “I do not love _Mrs. Graham_ _,_ which makes such an admission impossible.”

She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before the meaning of his words sank in.

“Oh” was all she could manage in response. She felt a chill pass over her, and then her entire body grew hot, as though she had a fever. She could scarcely grasp it — the notion that Lord Sutton should love _her_ was incredible. Perhaps she had misunderstood his meaning. She watched his face, waiting for some indication that he had meant something else entirely, or that he was amusing himself at her expense, but he merely grew more discomfited the longer she stared. 

It was true, then. If she were of a delicate constitution, Elinor was certain that she would have fainted at such news.

“I disclosed my feelings to him only because I thought James deserved to know the reason for my behaviour towards you, and to understand why it would be difficult for me to be in your presence in the future,” he added stiffly.

Elinor nodded. She felt she ought to say something to alleviate the growing sense of unease in the room, but words continued to fail her.

“I expressly told him that he should not abandon his intention of proposing to you for my sake,” Lord Sutton continued. 

“I understand,” Elinor said finally. She could only imagine how coloured her face was. “Mr. Graham would not marry me without an assurance that I loved him because he would not injure you, or risk your friendship, for anything less.”

“So it would seem,” he replied. “I did not realise that he would behave as he did, for which I apologise. I should have. His conduct was entirely consistent with his character. Yet I cannot regret his reaction, as you both now seem to feel that it was for the better that you did not wed.”

She could not deny that, yet did not think he deserved to be forgiven so easily.

“Did you not think that _I_ also deserved some explanation for your behaviour?” Elinor asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “I took pains not to show it, but your conduct _did_ injure me. You did everything in your power to make me feel as though I were worthy of contempt. If, as it would seem, your behaviour was merely a disguise, did you not feel it your duty to dispel those feelings?”

It appeared not: Lord Sutton seemed surprised that she would think herself entitled to such an account. 

“I told James because I knew that he wondered at my uncivil behaviour towards you, and I wished to preserve our friendship. My feelings for you were unwelcome to me — _are_ unwelcome — and would have been so even if James were not in love with you. Your station, your lack of connections, of breeding…”

“Of _breeding_?” she asked reflexively, her face flushing even deeper than before.

Elinor knew she was not of equal standing with Lord Sutton, but had always imagined herself to be respectable and reasonably accomplished. She had been educated largely by her father, a man known for his intelligence, and though her family was not as well-situated as the Worthingtons or Earlwoods, they moved in the same circle, and were connected with people of consequence. (Elinor might also point out that her father’s own sister was a baron’s wife, though it was apparent that Lady Rossington would sooner forget their connection.) Elinor knew she was not elegant and aloof, or casually cruel, as was apparently fashionable in London circles, but she had never supposed one might regard her as a creature unworthy of affection. She would not feel so wounded if he had merely said that she was not an equal match for him — that was irrefutable — but the implication in his words and tone that it was disgraceful to even harbour feelings for her cut more deeply than Elinor cared to admit.

“I quite understand, Lord Sutton,” Elinor replied, hoping that her pride would keep the tears of humiliation at bay. “You regret your behaviour, but not its effect on _me_. I find the idea of you loving me quite fantastic under the circumstances — there appears to be nothing about me that you do not find wanting, and you have no apparent interest in my feelings. Nevertheless, you may be relieved to know that I have no more wish to be the object of your love than you wish to be its subject.”

Lord Sutton seemed taken aback at the passion in her words. “That is not... I did not mean to offend. I had hoped —"

“It is effortless for you, then.” Elinor drew in a steadying breath and rose to her feet. “Thank you for your visit. I understand how difficult it must have been for you to admit to harbouring feelings for someone you consider to be of base birth and manner, but I appreciate your explanation. I feel that I understand Mr. Graham’s conduct perfectly now: as you said, it was consistent with his nature. I admit I have still felt some resentment towards him for what transpired, even as I recognised that it was for the best, but your explanation has absolved him of all blame on that count.

“The only mystery that remains is how you could have developed feelings for me — or, indeed, what the nature of your feelings even _are_ , as I struggle to understand how love can exist in the absence of sympathy or respect. I trust with time you will forget all about me, and such questions will therefore cease to matter. Goodbye.”

Lord Sutton took a step towards her, brow furrowed, but stopped himself quickly. He looked to the ground, and when he looked at her again, the expression on his face was cold and restrained.

“I trust you are right, Miss Hartwell. Thank you for your time. Farewell.”

Elinor lowered her gaze, and waited for the sound of the closing door. As soon as she heard it, she collapsed onto the piano bench, too shaken even to cry.

* * *

Elinor managed to collect herself by the time Mrs. Bristow and the Earlwoods had returned from the shops, but was soon tested.

“Sophie tells us Lord Sutton called this morning,” Mr. Earlwood remarked. “I admit I was surprised to hear it. He and I had a few civil conversations in the past, but I did not expect the honour of a call. And at such an odd time! Does the man not keep the usual hours? Well, then, what did he have to say?”

Elinor, who had devoted all of her energy to appearing sanguine by the time that the Earlwoods returned, had no explanation at the ready. She looked to Mary in a panic, but her friend shook her head in a gesture of sympathetic helplessness. Elinor said the first thing that came to mind.

“Mr. Graham is engaged to be married.”

Mary knew this already, but Mr. Earlwood was understandably taken aback. Mrs. Bristow watched Elinor with a perfectly neutral expression.

“And Lord Sutton called to tell you so?” asked Mr. Earlwood, with some concern, as it no doubt seemed (and, indeed, would have been) an unkind and unusual thing for the man to do. 

“He thought I should hear it from—” Elinor could not bring herself to say ‘a friend,’ nor would anyone who had witnessed Lord Sutton and her together believe it. “— from someone I knew.”

“I suppose he intended it as a kindness,” Mr. Earlwood observed after a moment’s contemplation. Elinor could think of nothing to add and simply nodded in agreement.

He seemed content to inquire no further and soon excused himself. Elinor supposed that the trials and tribulations of his own daughter’s failed romance were as much as he could brook; he could not be bothered to wade into those of another young lady. 

Mrs. Bristow sent Elinor a sidelong glance, and wore the slightest of smiles on her lips, but soon followed her cousin out of the drawing room.

Elinor was infinitely relieved to be left alone with Mary, to whom she recounted the events of the morning. 

“What a loathsome creature!” Mary cried. “Were I a man, I would challenge him to a duel for speaking to you so!”

Elinor smiled despite herself. “I am glad you are not, then, for you are easily provoked, and surely would have been shot by now, or hanged for breaking the law. Lord Sutton insulted me, but he did not offend my honour. He has never treated me kindly; I do not know why his words affected me so now.”

“Of course you are affected! Who would not be — to be told such astonishing news, and then treated as though you are contemptible! And that is to say nothing of his unforgivable interference! Lord Sutton knew how Mr. Graham would react. He did not want you for himself, but could not bear to see you happy with his friend. What reprehensible selfishness!”

Elinor sighed. “I do not fault him for disclosing his feelings to Mr. Graham. I believe that he did not _intend_ for Mr. Graham to react as he did, though he could have anticipated it. And I think it better that I did not marry Mr. Graham, when I would certainly have disappointed him.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“What is there to do? Part of me feels that I should apologise, but I do not think I was wrong to speak as harshly as I did. If Lord Sutton had conducted himself with even the smallest measure of civility, or sympathy for _me_ , I believe I would sincerely pity _him_. I cannot help but think of things that I would never have said if I had known of his feelings… But I do not think the difficulty of the situation can justify his behaviour towards me.”

“Of course it does not!”

“I do not think my wish for further explanation — if I had such a wish — would move him to speak with me again. He as good as said he cared nothing about my feelings. Yet I know that he is capable of kindness — you know what pains he took to see James set up. I cannot reconcile it at all.”

“His kindness to a friend says little about his character in general,” Mary replied.

“Perhaps. But why did he come?” Elinor demanded, pacing the floor. “He claimed it was to offer an explanation for James’ conduct, but _why_? James did not ask him to do so. If it was for Lord Sutton’s sake, and his alone — to unburden himself, perhaps— why not simply write a letter? He must have known that coming in person would expose him to embarrassment.”

Mary touched her shoulder. “Elinor, if he cared for your feelings at all, surely he would have made _some_ effort to shield them, even if he is of the opinion that marriage is impossible.”

“You are right. Perhaps I am trying too hard to see compassion where there is none. In any event, after having been so unceremoniously dismissed, I doubt Lord Sutton will have any wish to see me again.”

“It seems as though you _would_ wish to see him again,” observed Mary, frowning.

“No, I am sure I would not. But it is bizarre that he should come here to tell me this, and then disappear forever!”

“Poor, dear Elinor. What strange creatures men are.”

“One wonders that our sex should be accused of being mysterious and inconstant, when there are men such as these!”

Not until later that night, after they had blown the candles out and settled into bed, did Mary mention the matter again.

“It is a pity Lord Sutton is not a better man, and would not think of marrying you,” she whispered. “I have heard that his income is well above £15,000 a year. How lovely it would have been, to see you so well matched, after all you have endured.”

Elinor did not respond, but struggled to sleep after these words. Certainly a fortune of that size promised comfort — far more than mere comfort. Though Elinor tried not to care that she had been afforded few luxuries in her life, relative to others in her circle, she could not deny that it could be tiresome to see Mary always in the latest fashions; with her beautiful music room and a grand pianoforte that she never touched; with her fine carriages, when Elinor and her mother could scarcely afford to even keep a horse… 

Oh, what a life Elinor might have, and might give her mother, if she married into such a fortune! 

  
But that was foolish. Not for all the riches in the world would she ever bring herself to plead with Lord Sutton to reconsider. Indeed, she thought stubbornly, not even if _he_ begged would she ever, _ever_ consider him!


	14. Sutton VII

* * *

Sutton VII

* * *

Lord Sutton spent the remainder of that day at the club, and imbibed such a profusion of alcohol that he nearly came to blows with Lord Ainsworth, a known profligate and cheat. Sutton’s old schoolmate, Lord Roger Chester, the third son of a marquess, intervened before any physical harm was done, though some provocative words concerning Lord Ainsworth’s mother, the dowager baroness, were uttered before the two were prised apart. That Lord Sutton had nearly been involved in a brawl was of great surprise to most present, for he was regarded as the sort who would brook the bombast and bragging of other men in a calm, if not supercilious, manner.

Sutton eschewed all offers to call a carriage and left the club on foot at an indeterminate hour. He stumbled through the streets, his conversation with Miss Hartwell playing in his mind.

Why in the bloody hell had he allowed himself to be persuaded to confess to Elinor? Mrs. Dalton was a witch — there was no doubt of that. She was fortunate she had not been born several hundred years sooner. (It seemed unjust that she should be spared burning at the stake by a mere accident of birth, but alas. He would miss her in his bed if she were rendered dust.)

Sutton recoiled when he thought of Elinor’s words and yet… Surely she had never before been as articulate as when she was eviscerating him! Not even in all her finery at the Rossington ball had she shone as brightly as this morning!

What was it that she had said? “ _I have no more wish to be the object of your love than you wish to be its subject!”_ He smirked despite himself, and wondered whether she had read that in a novel.

Their exchange had been mortifying in the moment — and, was, perhaps, mortifying still, though the drink certainly helped — yet he had never seen such a fire in her. And if she had drawn blood, so had _he_.

Sutton sobered for a moment, leaning against a post to still the rollicking of the surrounding world. Perhaps he ought not to have said anything about her breeding. She was proud — he had always perceived that about her, though James had once balked at the description. Not vain, nor haughty, nor arrogant, precisely, but deeply and undeniably _proud_. That insult would smart for some time, no doubt.

That had not been his intent, but it was done. 

The demon exorcised at last? Perhaps. 

Perhaps… but Elinor had insisted that he could not possibly love her. What could _she_ know of the matter? Had Sutton not shown consideration in telling her the truth now? Oh, but it had not happened soon enough for _her_ taste. Would she have him fall to his knees and kiss the hem of her dress?

Sutton might have said the words “I am sorry,” but he had pride enough of his own. Mrs. Dalton had been correct: Elinor would never have laughed at him. It would have been far worse, indeed, if he had gone there with his hat in hand.

She would have _pitied_ him. 

It occurred to Sutton, as he continued once again on his meandering path back to his lodgings, that he did not care whether Elinor hated him, so long as she thought well of him. (A seeming contradiction that made perfect sense to Sutton in the moment.)

Better of him than of James, preferably, but well would suffice.

At present, Elinor must both hate him and hold him in the lowest esteem. Sutton preferred that to pity, but he knew that she would continue to occupy his thoughts if he did not… Yet he was not sure what it was that he must now do. It seemed the conclusion of his dealings with Elinor was an ever-moving and elusive goal.

A beggar approached from out of the shadows, grasping at Sutton’s arm, and he shook the man off with a curse. Yet he fumbled through his pocket and tossed the man a crown regardless. 

Sutton could be generous, after all. Had Elinor not noted that about him? Or could she see nothing beyond his treatment of _her_?

Sutton realised, amidst his agitation, that he had entirely dispensed with thinking of Elinor as “Miss Hartwell.” 

And once this final, feeble barricade had fallen away, he could at last admit freely to himself that he loved her. 

He had so resented the thought of being at the mercy of another — of his own weakness — that he had fled from a mere word, even in his own mind. 

All these months, he had tried to deny the snare whilst struggling against it mightily, and it had only left him more entangled than he was at the start.

Yes, he loved Elinor — whether in spite of or because of her impudence and pride. 

Sutton had never spoken the words “I love you” in his life, nor had he heard them from anyone. No doubt he had loved others before Elinor — James, certainly; Mrs. Dalton, after a fashion; even his childhood nurse — but he had never assigned the word to the sentiment. 

Sutton doubted that he had loved his parents, though he must have longed for _their_ love at some point in his life. He had been born to a young, beautiful mother and an aloof, middle-aged father. Theirs had not been a good match. His mother was mercurial — doting at times, impatient at others, and, at her worst, utterly vindictive. His father took an occasional interest in Sutton, but made little effort with his wife, and she was wont to strike out in her rage and despair.

When Sutton was nine, his mother had told his father that there was a chance that Sutton was not his son after all. With a bitter laugh, she had asked him how he felt about the prospect of his ancestral title and fortune passing to the son of a footman. Or perhaps she had said a groom. Sutton could no longer recall. It was possible that she had taunted his father with the prospect of both. 

To this day, Sutton knew not whether his mother’s words held any truth. He doubted it, yet could never bring himself to ask her. His father had never spoken of it again and had made no effort to disinherit Sutton, but there was no more warmth between them from that day. He was many years dead now. 

Sutton was unsure of why he had thought of all this. What would Elinor say, he wondered, if she learned that he might be a fraud and a bastard? But of course he would never speak of it to her. He had never even mentioned the matter to James.

It was for the better that he had recalled his parents’ disastrous union, Sutton thought. Otherwise, swept up as he was by Elinor’s performance earlier that day (and heedless of her professed aversion to him), he may have been momentarily tempted to reconsider his position on marriage. 

But that he would never, _ever_ do. 

Sutton arrived at his London house at last, and his fist had scarcely met the door before he was let in by a servant. He waved off offers of food and refreshment good-naturedly, and insisted on climbing the stairs himself, though he nearly tripped more than once.

When he caught his reflection in the bedroom mirror, Sutton noticed that he was smiling. He was forced to confront the possibility that what he had truly longed for these months was not to be rid of Elinor, but to speak to her. Despite the manner in which they had parted, he was glad to have seen her — glad to know that he had the power to move her to passion, even if what she presently felt for him was loathing... 

Sutton and Elinor had seemed to be in agreement that their paths were unlikely to cross again, but he was now bullish that they _would_. Sutton had no notion of what he hoped to achieve in seeing her again. No doubt it would end dismally for all involved, but this resolution was not a matter of logic. 

  
He was drunk, certainly, and perhaps also mad, yet — somehow, improbably — he felt both relief and hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> England's poorest little rich boy gets off on rejection.
> 
> Does anyone know of show/movie/book in which a mother taunts a (putative) father about a child's paternity in a similar manner? I feel like I may have gotten that from somewhere, but cannot for the life of me put my finger on it. If so, apologies, and insert disclaimer about there being nothing new under the sun.


	15. Elinor VIII

* * *

Elinor VIII

* * *

Elinor spirits, which were in a state of near-constant agitation following her conversation with Lord Sutton, were lifted considerably when she received a letter from Mama later that week.

All was well in Darlington. Elinor was dearly missed by Mama and Bessy, and by young Colin, who had come by to inquire whether it was possible that Elinor might return home from town sooner than expected. Mama also assured Elinor that she was feeding the stray cat that occasionally lingered about their cottage, though she wondered whether it was necessary when he was already so fat! 

She reported, too, that Colonel Watson had returned to Birkenbridge for good. He had been injured when a soldier’s rifle misfired and spooked his horse during maneuvers. Though the injury was not severe — a clean break in one of his arms, which the surgeon was confident would heal well — he had decided that it was, at long last, time for him to take his leave of the army. Mama was doing her best to keep him in good spirits, for he had always been a most amiable man.

They had still heard nothing of Mr. Curtis. Mama thought that Mr. Earlwood had been very wise to bring Mary to town. She hoped, and did not doubt, that London was providing sufficient diversions to keep Mary’s mind off the matter. She concluded by writing that it was her sincerest wish that Elinor enjoy herself, and not worry overmuch about finding a husband (though Mama was, of course, receptive to any news of a possible match). Elinor was young yet, and Mama regretted that she had placed a burden on Elinor’s shoulders, for it had not been her intention.

Though Elinor missed Mama greatly, and all the more after this letter, she no longer wished to be home — at least not _yet_. Her time in town had been trying, but she felt it promised more than she had experienced thus far. She would not allow herself to be cast down by her aunt’s discourtesy, or Lord Sutton’s bizarre confession. She may yet find happiness here.

Elinor’s optimism was soon rewarded, for Mrs. Dalton sent a letter shortly thereafter requesting that Elinor, Mary, and Mrs. Bristow do her the great honour of calling Tuesday next. 

Mrs. Bristow was elated, and stressed to Mary and Elinor that a friendship with Mrs. Dalton could make a world of difference to their prospects, so they must do their utmost to make a favourable impression. Though Mary was usually dismissive of any talk of romantic prospects, she took Mrs. Bristow’s urging to heart, for she had heard from the Miss Vernons that a friendship with Mrs. Dalton as good as ensured an invitation to the most exclusive balls of the season — including the Daltons’ own. 

For her part, Elinor needed little encouragement, for she had already taken a liking to Mrs. Dalton, and wanted very much to further their acquaintance.

When the day came, Mrs. Bristow oversaw their preparations with the exactness of a general. Elinor was equal parts anxious and eager. She was still embarrassed that she had been in such a state of agitation when she met Mrs. Dalton last, but doubted that Mrs. Dalton would have extended an invitation if she thought Elinor’s conduct inexcusable. 

The Daltons’ house was in Grosvenor Square and was even grander than the Rossingtons’. It was near enough to Mrs. Bristow’s house that they had walked, though Elinor wondered whether it would have been more sensible to take the carriage, for Mrs. Bristow fussed over their bonnets and their hair and straightened their dresses for several minutes before knocking on the door. When Mrs. Bristow finally turned away from them, Elinor and Mary exchanged a look and could not help but laugh behind their hands. 

They were shown to the large drawing room, where Mrs. Dalton greeted them warmly. She had heard so much of Mrs. Bristow and was delighted to be making her acquaintance at last. Let her look at Miss Earlwood — positively delightful! How fortunate Mrs. Bristow was, to have not one but two lovely young ladies in her care. What great fun! And of course, it was a pleasure to see Miss Hartwell again — how well she looked! How very glad she was to see Miss Hartwell in better spirits. 

Mrs. Bristow looked very pleased after their introductions, and the two married women commenced to discuss some mutual friends. In the meantime, Mary and Elinor examined the elegant finger foods that Mrs. Dalton had set out, though neither dared eat a morsel without an indication from Mrs. Bristow that she deemed it acceptable. Elinor noticed, too, that Mrs. Dalton had a gorgeous pianoforte, and was studying it with interest when Mrs. Dalton addressed her.

“Do you play, Miss Hartwell?”

“Oh, yes — Elinor is a great talent!” replied Mary, for Elinor had been distracted.

“And what of you, Miss Earlwood?”

“No, I am afraid I have not the patience for it, though I am always happy to accompany Elinor when she plays.”

Mary rarely practised her singing, and her voice was not rich, but it was clear and bright, and quite lovely.

Mrs. Dalton begged a performance of them, and they obliged with “Robin Adair,” and then “The Mansion of Peace,” with Elinor playing and Mary singing. Mrs. Bristow had counseled them that they ought not perform more than two songs, for their hostess would surely find any more than that tiresome, so they stepped away from the pianoforte after that and accepted Mrs. Dalton’s effusive praise with grace.

Mrs. Dalton inquired after their families next, and listened attentively as Mary spoke of her father, mother, and sisters, and Elinor spoke of Mama. Elinor was about to inquire after Mrs. Dalton’s own family when their hostess exhorted her guests to eat, and then turned to Elinor.

“Might we take a turn about the room, Miss Hartwell?”

Mrs. Bristow nodded at Elinor to go, and Mary gave her a bolstering smile. 

Elinor rose and took the arm that Mrs. Dalton extended. They walked around the perimeter of the room in silence for a time before Elinor finally spoke.

“May I speak plainly, Mrs. Dalton?” she ventured.

“Please do. I find any other kind of speech wearying.”

“I wish to apologise — I have felt embarrassed of my conduct since the night of the Rossingtons’ ball. I should not have burdened you with my cares, as inconsequential as they were.”

“There are those who complain far too often and those who do not utter a word of complaint, even when they ought to. I suspect that you tend towards the latter. I do not think anyone should suffer discourtesy quietly — an opinion that is not shared by many of my peers, but there it is.”

“I am far more prone to complaint than you might suppose,” Elinor answered with a self-deprecating smile. “And my complaints on that night would have been better directed at those who offended me, rather than a sympathetic passerby. Unfortunately I do not think those responsible would have been moved. In the absence of respect for one’s person or position, a complaint will likely be met only with amusement or derision, and I do not much care to be laughed at.”

“Well said. I hope you have given little thought to those who offended you, for they are not worthy of it.”

Elinor flushed. Unfortunately, ever since Lord Sutton had confessed his love, he had occupied her thoughts far more often than she would have preferred.

“You seem perturbed, my dear,” observed Mrs. Dalton.

Elinor shook her head and fumbled for an excuse. “No, it is only… I wonder if you would say the same if you knew who it was that offended me.”

“But I do.” 

Elinor assumed Mrs. Dalton was joking, but her expression remained perfectly serious.

“How can that be?” Elinor asked, amazed.

As tactless as she had been, Elinor was certain she had not described Lord Sutton or Miss Greystone in sufficient detail to allow Mrs. Dalton to guess their identities. 

“I feel I must tell you the truth, my dear, now that I am at liberty to do so. Lord Sutton is a dear friend of mine. It was at his request that I offered you use of my carriage. He did not ask that I invite you here today, of course. _I_ wished to have the opportunity to speak to you properly.”

Elinor released Mrs. Dalton’s arm. She knew not how to react. She was at first astonished to learn that Lord Sutton had intervened on her behalf — then indignant that Mrs. Dalton had led Elinor to believe she was simply a Good Samaritan — and ultimately mortified that she had criticised Lord Sutton so severely to his own ‘dear friend’! 

“I would never have presumed to speak of Lord Sutton thus if I had known,” Elinor managed to reply in a formal manner, for she now felt that their earlier rapport had been a charade. “I am not ignorant of the fact that his position is far superior to my own, and that most would find his conduct acceptable given the difference in our stations...”

“Of course you would not have done. I am not offended on his behalf, nor do I have any intention of reminding you of your place. I am intimately familiar with Lord Sutton’s flaws, as well as his virtues.”

When Elinor did not respond, Mrs. Dalton continued to speak with casual cheer, as though the tenor of their conversation had not changed. 

“Sutton knew he could not offer his own carriage, for you considered him complicit in Miss Greystone’s cruelty and would certainly have rejected it. He was complicit, in a sense. Miss Greystone often amuses herself at the expense of others, and I doubt Sutton takes it upon himself to check her.”

“I should find it difficult to be friends with one who makes a sport of cruelty,” said Elinor primly. 

“I am sure I have been guilty of unkindness in my life, but I try not to make a habit of it. Nor does Sutton. I do not mean to excuse how he has treated you, but I do believe you are the exception, not the rule. He is not a warm man, but neither is he a cruel one. You yourself told me he did not treat others with the same incivility as he treated you.”

Elinor was compelled to admit that was true. 

She remained deeply shaken by what she had learned and found herself powerless to conceal it. No doubt Mrs. Dalton found her reaction to this revelation to be extreme — or would, unless she had some inkling of what Lord Sutton had recently confessed to Elinor. But Elinor could not imagine that he would ever disclose their conversation to anyone, for he must find it shameful indeed. 

“Truth told, my dear, I think Sutton wants nothing more than to be taken to task. It is not an uncommon trait among men of breeding who, as children, were both indulged and neglected.”

Elinor considered this a moment. “A child cannot be blamed for faults that no one has taken pains to correct, but Lord Sutton is a grown man now, and is capable of self-reflection. Certainly he could reform, if he wished to, particularly as he has friends who seem to desire it for him.”

“Yes, and perhaps he shall. Perhaps he has already begun.”

Elinor started at this — was it possible that Mrs. Dalton _did_ know? — but the other woman laughed easily. 

“As I said, I do not mean to excuse his conduct, but I am certain that Sutton would not have persisted in treating you so if he did not believe you equal to the task. He is not devoid of decency, and would not abuse a person he considers incapable of answering in kind.”

“Yet he treated me so from the very first,” Elinor retorted. “He could not have known when he met me that I was, as you put it, ‘equal to the task.’”

“Perhaps not — though I believe his friend Mr. Graham gave him reason to believe you were a most extraordinary young woman.”

The mention of Mr. Graham and his erstwhile admiration for her stung Elinor still. 

“I believe Mr. Graham’s infatuation led him to exaggerate my virtues, as Lord Sutton no doubt realised upon further acquaintance,” she said bitterly. 

“Did he, do you think?”

Elinor coloured. She was by now convinced that Mrs. Dalton must indeed be toying with her, though her companion’s face betrayed nothing.

“I admit that I remain confused by Lord Sutton’s many contradictions, but I cannot help but conclude that if you _and_ Mr. Graham hold him in high esteem, he must have some redeeming qualities,” Elinor said at last. “I appreciate you going to such pains to explain his conduct, Mrs. Dalton.” 

“You are very welcome, my dear, though I admit that I was as motivated by my own curiosity as I was by the desire to offer excuses for _him_.”

“Curiosity?”

“Sutton rarely feels anything other than indifference for anyone. I wished to better understand why you are among the few exceptions.”

Mrs. Dalton was incorrigible! Yet somehow, Elinor did not dislike her for it.

She took a deep breath and forced a smile. She, too, could play this game. 

“Have you made sense of it? I would dearly like to know what about me offends him so.”

Mrs. Dalton sent her an approving look and linked her arm with Elinor’s again.

“It cannot be your playing, which is lovely. I have as good an ear as any, I daresay, but am myself without musical talent of any kind. My son would beg me not to sing to him when he was small.”

“I may play, but I will only sing if pressed to do so — and with great reluctance,” Elinor replied, relieved by the change of subject. “How old is your son?”

“Eleven. Anthony is away at school.” Mrs. Dalton was pleased with Elinor’s awed reaction. “You are surprised I have a son who is so grown?”

“Forgive me, I thought we might be of a similar age.”

“You are kind to say so. I married young. Rather too young, I think, but I am fortunate. I fulfilled my duty quickly, and have been afforded a great deal of freedom since then.”

“Your husband must hold you in great esteem to grant you such liberty,” Elinor suggested.

Mrs. Dalton arched a brow. “Must he? I rather think my independence is a consequence of my husband’s lack of interest, rather than his respect.”

Elinor got the distinct impression that Mrs. Dalton was amused at her naïveté, but she could think of no way to redeem herself — the truth was that she was largely ignorant of the dealings between husbands and wives. 

“I think Mrs. Bristow may be tiring, my dear. No doubt you and Miss Earlwood run her ragged with all your intrigues.” 

Elinor started to protest, but was rebuffed with a wave of the hand. 

“Do promise me one thing, if you would, before you take your leave.”

“Gladly, if it is within my power,” Elinor answered.

“Do not forgive him too easily.”

“‘Him’?” asked Elinor, but Mrs. Dalton responded only with a meaningful look. 

“I cannot imagine that Lord Sutton would ever deign to make amends with _me_.”

Particularly now, she thought, wincing inwardly. 

“You must allow that I know him better than you,” replied Mrs. Dalton.

“Then I assure you, ma’am, that I will not.”

Mrs. Dalton patted her hand and they turned back to rejoin the party. Mary and Mrs. Bristow were speaking in low voices amongst themselves, but grew silent at their approach and smiled amiably.

“Forgive the interruption, ladies — I was just telling Miss Hartwell that you all must come to my ball Friday next! And naturally your dear papa, too, Miss Earlwood. Say you shall, won’t you? I will brook no refusal!”

Mrs. Dalton winked at Elinor, who was rendered speechless, for she understood what it signified. 

Mrs. Bristow and Mary thanked Mrs. Dalton and assured her of their attendance before taking their leave. Elinor nodded a goodbye and followed them out, her heart in her stomach.

She had not expected that she would have to face Lord Sutton again so soon!

Mrs. Bristow and Mary chattered excitedly about their great triumph as they walked back, and Elinor mustered what enthusiasm she could. After all, the world did not centre on her and her discomfort — Mary deserved this diversion after all she suffered with Mr. Curtis, just as Mrs. Bristow merited whatever social advancement her attendance at this ball may procure! 

And perhaps, after all Mrs. Dalton said in his favour, Elinor would find Lord Sutton an altered man — though it was unlikely that they would even speak at all, no doubt.

Surely it was Elinor’s preference that they would _not_. Yet the news of Lord Sutton's intercession and the consideration it betrayed affected her still. While she doubted that she could ever forgive him all he had said and done in the past, she wondered whether it was possible that his true nature was something different to what she had believed. The prospect intrigued her.

She struggled with these thoughts for the next few days. In the end, after much deliberation, Elinor decided that it was pointless to devote any further energy to thoughts of Lord Sutton, or speak to him ever again. She had no use for his friendship, and he had made it abundantly clear that he had no interest in marriage. Would it not be cruel, under the circumstances, to maintain a relationship with him for the sole purpose of puzzling out what sort of man he in fact was? 

Elinor also disliked the idea of being a pawn in another’s game. As fond as she had grown of Mrs. Dalton, Elinor did not want to give her the satisfaction of seeing her plot (whatever it may be) come to fruition. 

  
And thus it was settled: Elinor would have nothing to do with Lord Sutton at the Daltons’ ball, or anywhere thereafter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally, Elinor gets her way, and our story ends here. ;-)
> 
> Small spoiler: a new(-ish), significant character will be joining the mix soon.


	16. Elinor IX

* * *

Elinor IX

* * *

There was great excitement in Mrs. Bristow’s house in the hours leading up to the Daltons’ ball. Many deliberations were held over which of their many gowns Mary and Mrs. Bristow would wear. For Elinor’s part, only the dark green silk that she had from Mary or the second of the new gowns she had acquired in town would be appropriate for the occasion. (Her white gown was, of course, out of the question, for Mrs. Dalton had already seen her wear it.) It was ultimately decided, by committee (though Mr. Earlwood abstained from the vote), that green would suit better than the pink. Mrs. Bristow remarked that it made Elinor’s eyes, which were a shade of amber, appear almost green, and thus an altogether more fetching shade than they were in truth.

Mrs. Bristow’s lady's maid was occupied with her mistress, and was also unaccustomed to the manner in which the young ladies preferred to style their hair, so Mary and Elinor helped one another. Elinor was certain she had the better end of the bargain, for though Mary was no doubt assisted by a maid of her own when at Dunnistone, she was incredibly deft at curling and pinning and weaving in ribbons. Elinor, working much more slowly, nevertheless managed a neat job of Mary’s hair, and helped place her bandeau of flowers and jewels. 

Mary was always fastidious about her appearance when it came to balls. Elinor was generally less so, but on this occasion she fussed over her appearance as much as, if not more than, Mary. She did not care to reflect on the possible reasons why. 

Finally the young ladies were satisfied with how they looked and went down to meet Mr. Earlwood, who had been ready for some time.

“Very lovely, my dears! Indeed, the very picture of loveliness!” he declared when Mary and Elinor descended the steps. He rose at once to come meet them. 

“And you are quite handsome yourself, Papa,” Mary replied, fondly, looping her arm through his and resting her head upon his shoulder. 

Elinor always felt a pang at such scenes of tenderness between Mary and her father, though she did her best to conceal it. She loved them well and did not begrudge them their good fortune.

Mrs. Bristow was the last to come down, and begged that they forgive her vanity — “and me, an old woman!”

Mr. Earlwood assured her that she was far from old and every bit as comely now as she had been when she was young. Mrs. Bristow was satisfied, and, on that note, they embarked for the ball.

The Daltons’ ballroom was the most extravagant scene Elinor had ever witnessed. There were flowers and candles in every direction, and elegant music wafting through the air. She was taking in the scene in awe when Mrs. Dalton came to greet them and thank them for their attendance. She apologised for the fact that she must soon away, but told Mrs. Bristow that she would find her friends Mrs. Shaw and Mrs. McMillan at the refreshment table. She queried whether Mr. Earlwood already knew Mr. Goodwin — splendid! Then Mr. Goodwin could introduce Mr. Earlwood to her husband, for they and some others were discussing politics or some such just over there. She turned then to Elinor and Mary, and guided them over to two young men, her brother-in-law, Mr. Charles Dalton, and his friend Mr. Langley, who had been in search of dance partners.

“Am I not a good sister, Charles, to have found you and your friend such pretty partners? Do try to be charming!” 

And with that, Mrs. Dalton was away. Elinor was stunned by how she seemed to know the exact location of every single one of her guests, and how ably she had seen to it that they would be engaged. Elinor would have been impressed even if Lady Rossington were not her primary point of comparison. 

Elinor was grateful that Mrs. Dalton had not thrust her into Lord Sutton’s path, though she found she had little in common with Mr. Charles Dalton. He professed a great passion for the country when Elinor told him where she lived, but it was soon apparent that what he meant by it was that he loved hunting. Elinor had no experience of hunting, nor any wish to, but told him of her talent for archery, which she deemed close enough to merit mention. He declared, with a suggestive arch of the brow, that he had a great appreciation of a woman with a keen eye. Elinor could only manage an uncertain laugh in response. 

After the dance had ended, it was decided that Mary would dance next with Mr. Charles Dalton and Elinor would dance with Mr. Langley. She caught Mary’s eye before they set off with their new partners, and Mary held a hand over her mouth and pantomimed a yawn.

Mr. Langley was indeed taciturn. When little else yielded a response, Elinor asked whether he, too, had a passion for hunting. The man smiled genuinely at this.

“It is always a boon for Charles when he finds a partner from the country, for he likes nothing better than to talk of hunting — whether or not the young lady shares his interest!”

They spoke more easily after that, but Elinor was relieved when the dance was done and Mary declared that they must take their leave, for she had spied some dear friends of theirs.

Elinor had thought the excuse was invented, but no — the Miss Vernons were indeed present. Elinor was not enthused by the prospect of spending the evening at their side, but chided herself. No doubt she was simply jealous that they openly preferred Mary, and demanded so much of her friend’s attention.

The Vernons knew a great many people and made introductions for Mary and Elinor, which Elinor appreciated. They also saw to it that both had dance partners, though it was plain that Elinor was always to have whomever the Vernons deemed least appealing. Yet even this was more than Lady Rossington had done, and Elinor accepted all offers with as much good grace as she could muster. 

After several hours of dancing and conversation (some pleasant enough, some tortured), Elinor was weary. She would have been perfectly satisfied if the evening ended then and there, particularly as she had not so much as caught a glimpse of Lord Sutton in all that time. Yet she knew there were hours yet ahead. 

Of course, shortly after this unlucky thought crossed her mind, Mary spied him. The Miss Vernons had gone to fetch refreshments and Elinor and Mary were resting at the side of the room. 

“There is Lord Sutton!” Mary cried, nodding in the direction where he stood.

Elinor flushed but did not turn to look. She was grateful that the Miss Vernons were not present. 

“It makes no difference,” Elinor answered. “I was prepared to see him here, and have no doubt that he is as disposed to ignore my presence as I am to ignore his.”

“Was there not more you wished to say to him?”

“If ever I did, I have thought better of it.”

Mary pursed her lips but said nothing, and the Miss Vernons soon rejoined them. 

“What an assembly! Did you know that Lord Penhall is in attendance?” cried Vanessa upon her return. 

“Lord Penhall? Ought we to know him?” asked Mary.

“He is married,” Violet replied dourly.

“And yet he has the audacity to show his face,” quipped Elinor, though her remark was met with confusion from Violet and consternation from Vanessa.

“He is a prominent Tory in the House of Lords, and is Mrs. Dalton’s cousin, I believe,” Vanessa explained. “An  _ earl _ .”

“Indeed?” Elinor asked politely, though she could not muster the least interest in Lord Penhall.

“He has no children. It is a pity his nephew, Mr. Thorn, is not here — it is said he will inherit,” Violet continued.

“If there is anything left to inherit,” interjected Vanessa. “It is said Lord Penhall has extravagant tastes.”

“What of Lord Sutton?” Mary inquired. “He is present  _ and _ unmarried. He is not an earl, of course, but a viscount is nothing to scoff at.”

Vanessa and Violet exchanged a look and both began to laugh.

“There is no point in setting one’s cap at Lord Sutton, Mary dearest,” said Violet.

“He is handsome, I grant you, but a committed libertine,” added the elder Vernon. “If he is not tempted by Miss Greystone’s  _ £60,000 _ pounds, I doubt there is any hope for the rest of us.”

Mary sent a sly look in Elinor’s direction. 

“Elinor knows him quite well,” she remarked.

“Indeed?” asked Vanessa.

Vanessa and Violet had never before regarded Elinor with such interest. 

Elinor started. “Not ‘ _ quite _ well.’ He was… we had a mutual friend.”

The expression on the Miss Vernons’ faces made it plain that they expected more than this.

“He is... a difficult man to parse,” she added, and resolved to say no more. 

Even though Mary only meant to tease, Elinor was irritated — Mary must know that Elinor had no wish to speak of Lord Sutton! It was difficult enough to remain composed knowing he was present without such a provocation.

Disappointed with Elinor’s response, the Miss Vernons commenced comparing their dance cards and inquired after Mary’s and Elinor’s. Elinor had no partner for the next dance, but assured them that she did not wish for one, and finally they relented and went off to find theirs. 

Elinor took a turn about the room, content to be in her own company, and to observe the fashions and behaviours of those gathered without being required to engage with anyone. 

There were two very young ladies standing with linked arms, faces flushed, whispering excitedly to one another; an older, red-nosed man being chided in hushed tones by his wife for overindulging in wine; a circle of young men laughing at one of their compatriots for being rebuffed by a would-be dance partner; and an elegant group, set somewhat apart, with a man among them who made Elinor think, for a wistful moment, of her brother Christopher.

Elinor almost continued walking past, but stopped herself. She was so accustomed to thinking her brother forever a world away that she had almost dismissed the possibility that it  _ could _ be him out of hand. 

The man was dressed much more finely than her brother ever had — or could likely afford — but he also had their mother’s dark eyes, their father’s dimpled chin, and so much else of Christopher’s looks about him that she could scarcely keep herself from staring.

“It  _ is _ Christopher,” Elinor said aloud. As a general matter, she did not talk to herself, but she felt as though she must speak it for it to be real — or she would realise what a fool she was being once the thought was spoken.

But Elinor did not feel the least bit of doubt. She had found Christopher, finally!

As exhilarated as she felt, it took Elinor a moment to gather the courage to catch his attention. When their eyes met, her trepidation was forgotten.

“Christopher!” she cried.

His brow furrowed. It was to be expected that he would not recognise her immediately (though it was often said in Darlington that Elinor was nearly the picture of her mother), but it never unfurrowed. There was no moment of recognition, or delight. 

A woman beside him whispered something behind her hand. The severe looking man to Christopher’s left glowered at Elinor.

Despite all this, her certainty never wavered. Elinor knew she might be putting him in an awkward position in front of his friends, but once he realised who she was, all that would be forgotten and forgiven. Surely he could not resent her for an estrangement in which she played no part!

She was about to continue her approach when she felt someone take hold of her wrist.

Elinor turned, vexed by the intrusion, until she realised who it was. 

“ _ Lord Sutton _ ?” 

He nodded a greeting and released her, flexing his hand involuntarily, only to extend his other hand towards her with a half bow. “This dance, Miss Hartwell.”

The convergence of seemingly impossible events rendered her speechless. When she finally found her voice, Elinor found herself unable to speak cogently. “Why are you — Forgive me, but  _ no _ , I — I must speak to —”

“I must insist.”

With his hand barely touching the small of her back, Lord Sutton shepherded her to the floor. She was too flustered to protest at first, and by the time she had gathered her wits, the music had already started. She had enough decorum to refrain from marching off the floor, as dearly as she wished to do so.

The dance was far too lively to allow for conversation, or even to allow Elinor to steal a glance at her brother, whom she feared might slip away. As little as she liked Lord Sutton in this moment, she did not wish to cut a poor figure when dancing with him, for he was unexpectedly light on his feet. He had not danced at all when in Darlington, but it suited him — he had never before seemed as approachable as he was in the midst of this scotch reel. She thought she might have even spied a smile.

When the music ended she curtsied at Lord Sutton and was about to turn back towards Christopher when he fixed her with an imperious look. She took this to mean that he would once again seek to prevent her. She could not fathom what cause he had to interfere, and told him so. 

“When we last spoke, you seemed opposed to interfering in the affairs of others, Lord Sutton,” Elinor observed sourly. “The exception seems to be matters of great importance to  _ me _ .”

“You cannot know Lord Penhall. What would possess you to approach his party?”

Elinor assumed the stern-looking man was the famed Lord Penhall.

“I have no interest in  _ him _ ,” she replied, her irritation emboldening her. “I know his friend, the man in the navy coat.”

She had never before seen Lord Sutton look so astonished and dismayed — quite a feat, given all that she had said to him when last they met. 

“I doubt that,” he replied finally, “and strongly urge you to abandon any intention of speaking with him.”

“I  _ do _ know him, and I will  _ not _ . It is Christopher, I am certain of it.”

“His name is John Loveton. You could not possibly be acquainted with him.”

His tone of confident condescension was too much to be borne. 

“Lord Sutton, you must allow me to know my own brother when I see him!” she cried, struggling to keep her voice appropriately quiet. “Even after all this time. I do not know why he did not acknowledge me when I called his name, but—”

“It is  _ not _ his name.”

“I tell you that it  _ is _ !”

“Miss Hartwell, if we were to ask the man himself, and all around him, what he is called, I can assure you they would reply ‘John Loveton.’”

“It does not necessarily follow that he is  _ not _ Christopher. He may be using an assumed name, though I do not know why.”

“Is it not possible that you are —”

“It is not!” she replied. “Do you think that I am willfully blind, in addition to all the failings you so thoroughly enumerated in the past?”

“No, Miss Hartwell, I do not,” he answered, his tone and his resolve softening.

“It has been ten years since I last saw him, but he is not so altered that I cannot recognise him for what he is.  _ Who  _ he is. Whatever you wish to call him, that man  _ is _ my brother, Lord Sutton.”

Lord Sutton glanced in Christopher’s direction, and then at Elinor. “This is… entirely unexpected, but I see that you are convinced. I believe you.”

“Thank you,” she replied, though she was too exasperated to feel any true gratitude.

“Nevertheless, I must exhort you to reveal this connection to no one,” said Lord Sutton firmly.

“If I do not speak to him now, I may never have the opportunity again. I do not care if it will be considered impolite — I  _ must _ .” 

“You know nothing of Mr. Loveton’s reputation.”

“What reputation?” asked Elinor, frowning.

“For your own sake, Miss Hartwell, I beg you to reconsider.”

“What reputation, Lord Sutton?” she asked again, more forcefully.

“The next dance will soon begin, and I cannot—”

“Cannot be seen with me for a moment longer? You should look to your own reputation, Lord Sutton, and allow me to concern myself with  _ mine _ .”

His hazel eyes flashed. “You are…  _ infuriating _ . I am trying to prevent you from disgracing yourself.”

“You exaggerate,” Elinor replied, though her tone betrayed her uncertainty.

“I do not deal in idle threats, Miss Hartwell. You would do well to keep away from him.”

“Why?” she asked, her voice almost breaking with the strain of this news. What had become of her dear, sweet brother?

“I… will explain. Later. Not tonight.”

It seemed far from a certainty that she would see Lord Sutton again, but she did not dispute that point — her desperation and distress took precedence over such practical concerns. 

“No matter what nature of man my brother is now, I cannot simply forget that I saw him, and leave here tonight without any hope of ever seeing him again!”

Lord Sutton appeared moved by her evident distress. “You have his name. Inquiries could be made… but no,  _ you _ could not possibly. You would not know where to begin, or how to go about it properly… Damn it. I will have to see to it myself.”

Elinor had many questions, but the simplest escaped her first. “ _ You _ ?”

“Whatever your opinion of me, Miss Hartwell, I am a man of my word. I will convey to Mr. Loveton that you are in town and would speak with him privately. You may trust me to do so discreetly.”

“I do,” she replied immediately, though she could not account for her implicit belief in him. “But I am astonished that would you perform such a service, after all that—”

“It is nothing. Thank you for the dance. Please excuse me.”

Lord Sutton bowed curtly and strode off without another word. 

Elinor was in a daze as she made her way back to Mary and the Miss Vernons. As she approached, she observed Vanessa’s indignation and Violet’s astonishment. They had seen her and Lord Sutton on the dance floor, no doubt. She would be required to make an explanation.

Indeed, as soon as she was near, Vanessa declared, “How secretive you are, Miss Hartwell. I wonder that you will not even tell your friends about your plots.”

Elinor laughed genuinely at this statement, shaken though she was. “Believe me, Miss Vernon, no one could find what just transpired more incredible than I.”

She longed to be able to tell Mary all that had occurred, but the Miss Vernons never left them alone for a moment. Indeed, shortly thereafter, the Miss Vernons’ cousin, Mr. George Vernon, came to join them. He was handsome, with auburn hair and fine blue eyes, but Elinor distrusted him at once. He affected familiarity with Mary from the first word and proceeded to fawn over her in (what seemed to Elinor) a most unbecoming manner. All the while, the Miss Vernons did nothing to check his behaviour, but instead seemed pleased with it. Elinor tried to catch Mary’s eye in order to gauge her feelings, but never managed it. It seemed impossible to Elinor that Mary could enjoy such specious flattery, but nothing in Mary’s manner betrayed unease. She was very pleasant to Mr. Vernon, and laughed becomingly at all his compliments. Yet certainly this was only because she did not wish to offend her friends. 

As there was no call for her intercession, silent or otherwise, Elinor ceased to concern herself with Mr. Vernon’s cloying presence and tried to catch another glimpse of her brother. It seemed he had gone, for she could not spy him anywhere she looked, though she did not cease to try to locate him.

Not until Violet inquired whether she was cold did Elinor realise she was trembling. It was little wonder that her nerves were overwrought — Elinor had seen Christopher, and was powerless to speak to him! For a moment she began to fear that she had somehow dreamt it, but no — she could see his face so vividly now in her mind. He was everything she remembered and more — everything but tender-hearted. How was it that Christopher had stayed away so long? How was it that he did not even come home to say goodbye to Papa?

And then there was Lord Sutton, to whom she had so boldly declared she would never speak again. Elinor had been unable to process all that was transpiring at the time, but she now understood what he had done to spare her embarrassment, to say nothing of the service he had agreed to undertake. She had not even had an opportunity to thank him. 

Elinor could scarcely understand it. She doubted that she ever  _ would _ understand him. 

But when Elinor happened to catch his eye again, as she searched the crowd for Christopher, she nodded at him, and hoped he could appreciate, from that small gesture, a glimmer of her gratitude. He nodded back, before turning away and disappearing into the throng.


	17. Sutton VIII

* * *

Sutton VIII

* * *

Lord Sutton had not known that Elinor was to attend the Daltons’ ball, but he was hardly surprised when he spied her. Mrs. Dalton was entitled to her amusements, he supposed, though he knew not what _she_ expected to come of it. 

Sutton _did_ long to speak to Elinor again, but could think of no pretense for doing so that did not feature their prior conversation, which he wished to avoid. An apology, after all, was entirely out of the question. In the end, he could think of nothing to say to her that would cast him in a favourable light. Though Sutton knew that future opportunities would be scarce, he would not speak for the sake of speaking and make himself more contemptible to her in the process. 

It was later that evening when Sutton happened to see Elinor again. At that point he no longer had any intention of speaking to her, yet when he saw her on a direct path to Lord Penhall, calling out the name “Christopher,” he excused himself from his conversation with Mrs. Dalton’s idiot brother-in-law. 

It was possible that she was addressing another, though her informality in such a setting was uncharacteristic. But no — it was soon apparent that Elinor could only be addressing Lord Penhall, or one in his party. 

She must be confused. She would be disabused soon enough, but he doubted that Lord Penhall would be civil about it. 

Sutton would not fail to take action a second time. Without thinking or hesitation, he took her by the wrist and insisted upon the next dance. He did his best to ignore the thrill he felt in his chest when they touched.

Elinor was not particularly gracious about his intervention, though Sutton soon understood why. He could not have been more astonished when he learned of the cause for her behaviour. 

Mr. Loveton, of all people! 

For Elinor to betray intimacy with a man of Mr. Loveton’s repute would have been disastrous for her. The true nature of Mr. Loveton’s relationship with Lord Penhall was not widely known, to be sure, but he was regarded as a sponge and an unfit companion for a man of Lord Penhall’s standing. Yet Mr. Loveton must have made his own way for many years, for he was no less than thirty, and had never been attached to any other prominent persons before Lord Penhall, as far as Sutton knew. It seemed to Sutton that most people ill-liked the man because they did not know where he came from, or what to make of him, and because he made no attempt to garner their good opinion. 

Sutton soon saw that there was no way Elinor would abandon her intention of speaking with him, even after she had some inkling of how things stood. Sutton cursed her stubbornness, though he could not help but admire the fact that she did not shy away at the first suggestion of impropriety. And so, for better or ill, he made the promise to assist her. 

For a time after he parted ways with Elinor, Sutton could not help but wonder whether, in her desperation, she had indeed made a mistake. There was not a strong resemblance between the two. Elinor was very like her mother, with dark hair and a pale complexion, though too many hours spent in her woods had left her with a sprinkling of freckles across her brow, nose and cheeks. Mr. Loveton, on the other hand, had sandy hair and was of a far more swarthy complexion than Elinor or Mrs. Hartwell, though Sutton supposed that may merely be a consequence of time spent in warmer climates. 

Yet when he took a moment to study Mr. Loveton, who appeared uneasy after Elinor’s near approach, Sutton thought he _could_ perceive a resemblance between them, though he could not put his finger on what it was. Something about his bearing, or perhaps the set of his eyes. 

And Elinor had been insistent. When Sutton happened to meet her eye later that night, and saw how her face shone with hope and gratitude, he knew that it mattered not whether _he_ had doubts. He would speak to Mr. Loveton under any circumstances, for he understood what it meant to her. 

Sutton was impatient to broach the subject of Mr. Loveton with Mrs. Dalton, but found her constantly surrounded. He would not presume to demand her attention here in her own home, in the presence of her husband. Thus, it was only late in the night, when the crowd finally began to thin, that Sutton was finally able to catch her alone. Mrs. Dalton was, as always, the picture of the perfect hostess, but even she was beginning to betray some hint of wear.

“Sutton, what a relief!” she cried, and added in a conspiratorial whisper. “One of the few with whom conversation is not a chore!”

“Nonsense,” replied Sutton with an indulgent smile. “I sometimes think you are happiest when speaking to the utterly ridiculous. No doubt you could engage a blank wall.”

“Very true,” she answered happily. “There is no better conversationalist than I. Yet you have still been missed.”

“I enjoy the benefit of your attention often enough. I must be content to share,” he replied. Sutton hesitated for a moment before asking, “May I inquire about one of your guests this evening?”

“Certainly,” she replied. “That guest would not happen to be a young lady whose name begins with ‘E,’ would it? I have it on good authority that she was seen dancing with a certain viscount. Quite a coup.”

He grimaced. Of course there was already talk. 

“No, that was not my query. I wish to know what _you_ know about the origins of Mr. Loveton.”

Mrs. Dalton’s whimsical expression grew grave. 

“Strictly speaking, he was not one of _my_ guests, for he was not invited by _me_ . And why, pray tell, would _you_ be interested in Lord Penhall’s particular friend?” Mrs. Dalton replied, arching a brow. In a lower voice, she added, “My dear cousin would be ill-pleased if he knew that one younger and more handsome than he was inquiring after his favourite. He is rather jealous.”

“You know my interests do not lie in that direction. I promised someone that I would make inquiries.”

“Promised _whom_? Come, Aubrey, I thought we had no secrets.”

“I trust that I may rely on your discretion?”

“Must you really ask?” she asked, indignant.

“Miss Hartwell,” Sutton replied, and braced himself. 

Surprising Mrs. Dalton was no small feat, but he had done it. She stared at him with her mouth agape before managing an uncertain smile.

“ _Miss Hartwell_ ? She _is_ a surprising young woman, isn’t she? Whatever could her interest be in a man such as Mr. Loveton?”

Another couple had come to stand near to where Sutton and Mrs. Dalton were speaking, so he drew her away a small distance.

“She saw him here and is convinced that he is her brother, whom she has not seen since she was a child,” he explained. “I saw her begin to approach Lord Penhall’s party and thought it prudent to intercede.”

“How fortunate for her that you happened to notice,” she remarked drolly, though her brow was furrowed. 

“You know that I find your teasing on this topic tedious.”

“Very well, do not sulk,” Mrs. Dalton answered, and put a hand on her chin in contemplation. “In truth, I know precious little about Loveton. I doubt anyone knows much. I was told he has no family — that he is an orphan, a self-made man. I believe he worked in trade on the continent, and met my cousin when he was there on one of his tours. Yet I also recall hearing whispers of a connection between Mr. Loveton and Miss Hartwell’s aunt, Lady Rossington, though no one ever seemed to know precisely what it was. And certainly neither of _them_ has ever spoken of it.”

“It is possible then,” Sutton observed.

“So it would seem.” Mrs. Dalton gave a humourless laugh. “How shocking! I would never have imagined it… One can guess the cause of the estrangement, I suppose.”

“Miss Hartwell is unaware. She wishes to speak to him.”

“What did you say to her?” 

“I alluded to there being some danger. The circumstances did not allow for full explication.”

“You told her that it is impossible, of course… or no?” she demanded.

Sutton hesitated. “No. I promised that I would convey her wishes to him.”

“How chivalrous,” Mrs. Dalton replied, narrowing her eyes in displeasure. “But is it wise, Sutton? It cannot end happily. She may not thank you for your troubles once she learns the truth about him.”

“I cannot believe that will deter her,” he replied, with rather more insistence than he intended. 

“She is not like you and I.”

“How do you mean?”

Mrs. Dalton’s expression softened, and she put her hand on his for the briefest of moments before letting it fall to her side. “I have a great regard for Elinor, but she is so very innocent. I very much doubt that she can even conceive of the possibility that men such as her brother exist.”

“Perhaps.”

Sutton did not believe that she would be repelled by such knowledge, and knew that Mrs. Dalton could see that.

“Take care,” she said softly. 

“Why? I hardly risk _my_ reputation in speaking to Loveton.”

“That is not what I meant.”

“I would not take any liberties with Miss Hartwell if that —”

“No, I do not mean _that_ , either,” Mrs. Dalton replied, holding a hand up to silence him. “I know that I have encouraged your _interest_ , shall we say, but it appears that circumstances have spiraled beyond what even I, with my unparalleled insight, could have foreseen. I do not want to see Miss Hartwell unhappy or disgraced as a consequence of events that _I_ set into motion. Nor do I want you, in your delicate state, to unwittingly lead her astray. You would never forgive yourself, and _your_ unhappiness would be even more difficult for me to bear than hers.”

“My ‘delicate state’?” he demanded, glowering down at her.

Mrs. Dalton was undaunted by his reaction, and even smirked. “I fear you will be unable to deny her, even if you know that what she asks is unwise.”

“I assure you that I am in full possession of all my faculties,” he insisted, though it lent little dignity to his position.

Mrs. Dalton raised her eyebrows and nodded. Sutton resented her superior manner, but was forced to debase himself by asking something further of her.

“If you could ascertain where and when I may be able to approach Mr. Loveton alone, I would be in your debt. I have no wish to involve Lord Penhall in this matter.”

Mrs. Dalton gave him a searching look, though Sutton knew not what she was looking for. With a sigh, she relented.

“You are _already_ in my debt, but I will do this for you, of course.”

* * *

Less than a week later, Sutton received a short missive from Mrs. Dalton.

_Mr. L can be found sketching by the Serpentine on Sunday mornings. Do take care, S. — A.D._

Sutton went to find him there the following Sunday, shortly after sunrise. He was generally not one to rise early, but felt strangely energized by his purpose, and thus was only slightly resentful of the fact that he had risen with the sun. 

It was unexpectedly pleasant to be out in the early morning, with a haze over the pale morning sky, and a quiet that one rarely experienced when in town. Sutton walked in Hyde Park for some time before he spied Mr. Loveton, who was sitting near the water, a sketchbook propped against his knees.

He started when he first realised that someone approached, but wore a lopsided grin when he saw that it was Lord Sutton.

Sutton nodded a greeting. “Good day. I do not think we have ever been introduced. I am —”

“I know who you are, Lord Sutton,” Mr. Loveton replied. He started to get up, but Sutton waved him off, and Mr. Loveton shrugged and settled back down onto the grass.

“You were at the Daltons’ ball, were you not?” asked Sutton. 

Mr. Loveton scoffed and nodded to himself, as though a question had been answered. “I see. You were sent by Mrs. Dalton to reprimand me for attending her ball? I know you are chief among her coterie of handsome young lovers.”

“You dare to speak of a respectable lady in that manner?” Sutton demanded, outraged at Mr. Loveton’s presumptuous manner. Even if there was no one near enough to hear what was said, it was unthinkable to Sutton that he should speak of a married woman’s inconstancy in a public space. Mrs. Dalton’s life could be destroyed by such thoughtless remarks. 

“By all means, throw down your glove if you must. But I did not think you and I needed to pretend with one another, my lord.”

Sutton took a moment to compose himself and nodded. If this was the manner in which Mr. Loveton wished to proceed...

“No, indeed. We _may_ speak frankly. Perhaps you can provide an explanation for a curious circumstance that arose at the Daltons’ ball.”

“I will do my utmost, my lord,” the man replied, with a mock bow of his head.

“There was a young lady present, a Miss Hartwell, who is convinced that you are her brother. Certainly that cannot be.”

Mr. Loveton’s jovial expression fell away, but he said nothing. Sutton smirked and pressed on. 

“She was intent on approaching you, but I thought it may be uncomfortable for all involved if she did so without introduction, calling you by a name unknown to most around you. No doubt you recall the incident?”

“I do not have the slightest idea of whom you speak,” Mr. Loveton said, his tone eerily even. “I think the young lady must have been confused.”

“I said the very same. Yet she insisted with such passion and distress that she was not mistaken, and that you are the brother she has so dearly missed. I am afraid I began to believe her.”

Mr. Loveton swallowed with apparent difficulty. He opened his mouth and then shut it quickly, his eyes fixed on something in the distance, and a pained expression on his face. 

“Miss Hartwell is in town as a guest of Mr. Earlwood and Miss Earlwood,” Sutton continued in a more gentle tone, for he now felt some pity for the man. “They are staying on Grosvenor Street with a Mrs. Bristow. It is in Miss Hartwell’s best interest that you write promptly, before she takes it upon herself to seek you out. Should you choose not to do so, you may expect to hear from me again forthwith.”

Sutton was about to turn to leave when Mr. Loveton finally spoke.

“How is it that you know this young lady, Lord Sutton?” he asked in a strangled voice. 

Sutton hesitated before responding in as nonchalant a manner as he could affect. “My closest friend intended at one time to marry her.”

Mr. Loveton’s brows rose. “ _‘Intended’_? What occurred?”

“A clumsy interference. She was blameless.”

“I see. But why are _you_ here?” Mr. Loveton pressed. 

“I promised her that I would seek you out,” Sutton answered, as though it was natural for him to have done so. “It was the only measure that would prevent her from approaching you herself.”

“You should not have done. If this young lady were my sister, I —” Mr. Loveton’s voice caught again in his throat and he took a moment to steady himself before speaking again. “If this Miss Hartwell were my sister, I would have her know that a reunion of any kind is utterly impossible. I would tell her to forget me. I had thought — I had _hoped_ she had already done so.”

Sutton was not unsympathetic to Mr. Loveton’s impulse to protect his sister.

“If that is your wish, you must be the one to tell her so,” he answered. “Miss Hartwell would never accept such counsel from me.”

“That cannot be. Surely she would accept whatever counsel you saw fit to give, my lord,” Mr. Loveton replied, an insolent gleam in his eyes, though he still appeared troubled.

“You are a stranger to her, indeed, if you suppose that to be true,” Sutton replied, smiling despite himself.

“Good,” Mr. Loveton said, his voice almost inaudible. “It would have broken my heart to learn that my Nora had grown so submissive.”

“Nora?”

“A pet name,” Mr. Loveton replied, shaking his head. “A joke of ours, rather. Is she well? Notwithstanding the unfortunate business with your friend?”

Sutton ought to have expected this question, but it caught him unawares, and he could not manage any response but the most impersonal. “Well enough, I believe.”

“It has been ten years or more since I last saw her. She must be different to the girl I knew, even if she is no less stubborn. How do you find her?”

“She is…” Sutton faltered. He had never before spoken frankly about his view of Elinor’s character — not even when admitting his feelings to James and Mrs. Dalton, or to Elinor herself. In the past, even in his own thoughts, he had always exaggerated her faults and diminished her virtues in order to justify a disdain he did not truly feel. He feared he would be unable to provide an honest assessment now without betraying his love, which he was by no means prepared to do.

“Though you have little cause to trust my judgment, I have found no notable flaws in her character. She is talented. She plays the pianoforte very well, that is. Beyond that, I can scarcely say. Would it not be better for you to learn for yourself?”

Mr. Loveton arched a brow, but Sutton remained stony-faced, and the other man finally lost interest in their silent battle of wills.

Mr. Loveton looked down at his sketchbook and rolled his pencil between his fingers, his brow furrowed. “You have no notion of what I would not give to see Elinor again, and to speak to her properly, Lord Sutton. But Mr. Earlwood would never countenance a meeting if he understood the circumstances, and I would not see her against his wishes or without his knowledge.”

“There is nothing to prevent you from writing to her,” Sutton replied firmly. “I exhort you to do so.”

Mr. Loveton cocked his head to the side and examined Sutton with renewed interest.

“I am perplexed, Lord Sutton. I have heard that it is common for you to use and discard women of much higher stature than my sister. Why do you take such an interest in Elinor? What, pray tell, was the nature of your ‘clumsy interference’ in Elinor’s relationship with your friend?”

“I did not say that I was the one to interfere,” Sutton replied coldly. 

“Yet I am certain that it was you,” Mr. Loveton countered, smiling.

“I will not endeavour to defend my conduct with other women to you, sir, but I can assure you my interest in Miss Hartwell is not of that nature. I would not attempt, nor would she for a moment entertain, any untoward advance.”

“I see.”

“Will you write to her or no?” Sutton demanded. He had no more patience for Mr. Loveton’s impertinence, which far exceeded even that of his sister.

“I think I must. I see that you will not leave me in peace if I do not. Yet if I am to say anything of consequence, I cannot hazard my letter falling into the hands of another.”

“Then I will see it delivered myself,” replied Sutton shortly, for he was weary of Mr. Loveton’s equivocation. 

“You would play pageboy for my sister?” asked Mr. Loveton, laughing abruptly. 

Sutton glared and straightened to his full height, trying to assume as much dignity as he could. “I have made a promise. If that is what is required to see it through…”

“You are a man of honour indeed,” Mr. Loveton replied, his mirth giving way to wonderment. He stood now and offered his hand to Sutton. “If you meet me here in two days’ time, Lord Sutton, I will entrust to you a letter for my sister.”

Sutton nodded and shook the proffered hand, relieved to be no longer be engaged in conversation with this insufferable man.

It occurred to Sutton as he walked back, whilst the sky brightened above and the bustle in the streets increased, that everything that had transpired at the Daltons’ ball and after could not have been more fortuitous. A means of redeeming himself to Elinor had all but fallen into his lap. 

At the same time, it was all happening rather more quickly than Sutton could have anticipated. He knew not what followed after he gained Elinor’s good opinion. He supposed that must bring an end to things, permanently. He could not imagine himself penning amicable letters to her after she left town, or went on to marry someone else.

But Sutton banished these thoughts quickly. He was getting well ahead of himself. There was much to do yet, and many conversations to be had between them. And dwelling overmuch on the future had never been his practice. 


	18. Elinor X

* * *

Elinor X

* * *

Elinor eagerly watched for the post in the days following the Daltons’ ball. She had a letter from Phoebe — she and Tom were expecting their first child — and one from Mrs. Worthington — their eldest daughter would soon be in town, and would no doubt be delighted to see Elinor, on whom she had always doted.

Elinor was very glad to hear from her friends at home, though she could not help but feel disappointed that there was no word yet from Lord Sutton or Christopher.

She was even less pleased by the fact that Mr. Vernon had become a regular fixture in the drawing room, along with his cousins. He was more restrained there, in the presence of Mrs. Bristow, than he had been at the ball, but Elinor still found his manner artificial and his compliments excessive and insincere — to say nothing of his theatrical recitations of poetry, which were unbearable.

When Elinor asked Mary about her opinion of the man and his antics, she laughed and said that she did not take him entirely seriously, nor did she think that he was being entirely serious. 

Elinor could not agree — however absurd Mr. Vernon appeared, and however disingenuous his manner, his intention to court Mary seemed entirely sincere. And she could not imagine that any man would willingly make himself so ridiculous unless he were desperate. She finally summoned the nerve to ask Mrs. Bristow whether Mr. Vernon might be a fortune hunter.

Mrs. Bristow laughed. “One ought not judge too harshly, my dear, when one is oneself in the hunt for a fortune.”

Elinor flushed deeply. She could not deny that there was truth to the statement, though it mortified her all the same. “But I would not flatter and lie to garner favour!”

“No, of course you would not,” Mrs. Bristow replied kindly, and patted her hand. “You do well to raise it, though you must know that I would intervene if I thought Mary were in danger. Mr. Vernon is not very wealthy, to be sure, but he is of a good family, and may in time inherit from his mother’s sister, who has no children. With her dowry, Mary could certainly do better, and I hope she shall — but she is past twenty. It would be better for her to marry George Vernon than to languish over her Mr. Curtis forever. At present, I am heartened to see her entertain  _ any _ suitor.”

Elinor did not wish for Mary to languish, either. She knew that Mary would soon come to regret it if she forfeited her chance at marriage because of Mr. Curtis. Before Mary had fallen for him, she had always been quite adamant that she  _ would _ marry, with or without affection. 

Nevertheless, Elinor hated the thought of her friend ending up with Mr. Vernon, whose true nature was impossible to discern from his words and deeds. Her objection was not only to the man himself (though she did object to him, and strongly), but to the idea that Mary would forever be aligned with the Vernons. As things stood, Elinor already felt that Vanessa and Violet threatened the close bond she and Mary shared, and she feared that, if Mary married into the Vernon family, Elinor would be utterly unable to reclaim it. 

“You would do well to worry less about Mary, my dear, and more about yourself,” Mrs. Bristow continued, pursing her lips. “You have had no caller but Lord Sutton. I admit that I was delighted to learn that he danced with you, but sadly, I do not think we have reason to hope. No doubt you have some notion of the man’s reputation.”

Elinor looked away, embarrassed both by the mention of Lord Sutton and the dismal results of her efforts thus far. “Yes, I know. I  _ have _ been trying, Mrs. Bristow. I fear I am neither pretty nor charming enough to compensate for my lack of fortune.”

“Come now, Miss Hartwell — that defeatist attitude will not do. You like children, don’t you? There is a widower, Mr. Clarke, who is just past forty—  _ perhaps _ five and forty. There are five children in the bargain, but he is comely for a man of his years…”

And so Elinor was introduced to Mr. Clarke when they promenaded the next day. She found him pleasant and as handsome as Mrs. Bristow had given her reason to believe, despite his age. However, his eldest daughter, who was perhaps sixteen, was also present, and regarded Elinor with such loathing and disdain that Elinor at once abandoned any thought of Mr. Clarke. She had no wish to be a despised stepmother to a young lady who could just as easily be her sister. 

Elinor was dejected when they returned home that afternoon, though she brightened at once when she saw the footman approach her with the letter tray. 

Elinor did not recognise the hand on the note addressed to her, but knew that it must be either Lord Sutton’s or Christopher’s, and ran at once to her room to read it in privacy.

She turned it over and saw an elaborate ‘S’ insignia on the seal — it was from Lord Sutton, then. Her heart was pounding so loudly that she could hear it in her ears as she opened it.

_ Miss Hartwell, _

_ As promised, I spoke with Mr. L—. You were correct after all. He has penned a letter to you, which he asked that I convey in person. I trust you will be able to meet me at two in the afternoon on the 17th at St. Paul’s Cathedral — we are less likely to be observed by the eyes of the ton in Cheapside. _

_ Sincerely, _

_ Lord Aubrey Charles Beaumont, 7th Viscount Sutton  _

Elinor showed the letter to Mary later that night, as they were readying for bed.

“You will come with me, won’t you? I would rather that Mrs. Bristow knew nothing of this, so I cannot ask her to send Sophie as my chaperone. I thought we might say we are calling on the Vernons — Mrs. Bristow would not insist on accompanying us if that were the case.”

Mary examined it, her brow furrowing. 

“I am very happy, Elinor, that you will have some answers about your brother at last! But you must recall that we are already engaged that afternoon. We are to attend the Royal Menagerie with the Vernons.”

Elinor scoffed when she realised that Mary was serious. “Could we not go with them another day?”

“Can  _ you _ not meet with Lord Sutton another day?” Mary rejoined.

“Do you not think that  _ this _ is of greater importance than seeing some—?” 

Elinor nearly said “stupid animals with your insufferable friends,” but restrained herself. 

“To you, certainly,” Mary replied evenly, setting aside the letter. She recommenced combing her hair. 

Elinor snatched the letter up, no longer able to restrain her temper. “You do not care at all? Imagine, for a moment, that  _ you _ had no news of Harriet or Lettice for ten years. No doubt nothing would be of greater import to  _ you _ than news of them.”

“I  _ do _ care, of course, but one cannot simply renege on one’s commitments. If you will not ask  _ him _ to meet you some other day, we can depart together, and you can take the carriage to your appointment, and then join us at the Menagerie once you are done. That way, we can return here together, and Mrs. Bristow will have no cause to know of it.”

That plan would likely work, though Elinor would still be attending her rendezvous with Lord Sutton alone. She was mindful of the grave impropriety, particularly given his reputation. 

But Elinor could see that there was no budging Mary, nor would  _ she _ give in. She said nothing more to Mary that night. 

Elinor remained cross with Mary until the day of her meeting with Lord Sutton arrived, though she could not deny that Mary had thought everything through to ensure that they would have excuses ready. Mary would tell the Vernons that Elinor was obliged to call on her aunt, and thus would only be able to meet them at the menagerie later. And if anyone saw Elinor near St. Paul’s, she might tell them that she was shopping with a servant nearby, but parted from them for a brief moment to stop in to say a prayer for her late father. It was entirely by chance that she happened to run into Lord Sutton…

Elinor hoped it would not come to that. She was not an accomplished liar, and would no doubt give herself away. Certainly she could not help but look ashamed if she were forced to use Papa as an excuse for her misconduct! And the fact that Lord Sutton just  _ happened _ to be lingering in a churchyard must strike anyone as suspicious. 

Yet Elinor never faltered in her conviction that she  _ would _ go. She arrived early, and did in fact go into the cathedral to say a prayer for Papa, for she felt terribly guilty that the thought would never have crossed her mind if Mary had not mentioned it as pretense. 

When she emerged, Elinor saw Lord Sutton standing in the shade of the grand structure. She began to tremble with nerves and excitement, but dug her nails into her palms to steady herself.

“Lord Sutton,” she greeted finally, and bent into a curtsy once she was near to him. 

He bowed his head in greeting, a skeptical expression on his face. “Miss Hartwell. You are here alone?”

She coloured. “I— yes, unfortunately Miss Earlwood had another engagement.”

He frowned and, perhaps unconsciously, shifted away so that the distance between them was greater. “London is not Darlington. It was thoughtless of your friend to allow you to venture out on your own.”

Elinor knew he was right, of course, but did not care to be chided as though she were a child. “I am Mary’s guest, not her ward. She could not forbid my coming. I would have liked to have her here, but… it is of no consequence. I have the carriage, which is nearby waiting for me. And I am no longer unaccompanied, as you are here.”

He smiled at this, and was almost certainly thinking that having  _ him _ for a companion was likely worse than having none at all. 

“Very well. Thank you for coming.”

Lord Sutton’s unexpected deference and the knowledge that she would soon have news of Christopher dispelled her unease at her own impropriety. 

“You have done  _ me _ a service; I must thank  _ you, _ " she replied cheerfully.

Lord Sutton narrowed his eyes at this.

“I resented your intrusion the other night, but I see now that you intended only to spare me embarrassment,” Elinor continued. “I should have been more gracious.”

“Given our history, I understand why you would be indisposed to trust me,” he replied tersely. 

“Nevertheless, I am sorry for my behaviour. I should also apologise for the way I spoke when we last saw one another, before the ball. I was... perhaps more severe than I should have been. I do not think you can be so indifferent to my feelings when you have now come to my rescue on two occasions.”

He seemed astonished, and Elinor thought she could spy the faintest of blushes on his face. 

“You overstate my efforts,” he said stiffly. 

“Let me amend my statement,” Elinor replied, sheepish over the fact that she had managed to embarrass  _ him _ . “You have shown me sympathy and kindness on two occasions. I accused you of lacking both.”

“I have lacked in both, in the past.” 

Almost an apology. Elinor bit her lip to keep from smiling.

“Yes, that is true,” she replied, after she was confident that she would not grin like a fool. “And Mrs. Dalton exhorted me not to forgive you too easily, so I will not. Yet I see that you are  _ capable _ of sympathy and kindness — even to  _ me _ — under exigent circumstances. One supposes that you are capable under less dire circumstances, as well.”

“Perhaps. I will not risk it, though,” Lord Sutton answered wryly.

“‘Risk it’? How do you mean?”

“I would not wish to encourage your affection.”

Elinor stared and then glanced away, her face growing flushed. This was his revenge, she supposed, for embarrassing him with her gratitude. 

“You forget, Lord Sutton,” she said, after taking a moment to collect herself, “that I am even more cold-hearted than  _ you _ . I have never loved anyone, and quite possibly never shall. Besides, you still have not apologised.”

Lord Sutton arched a brow. “Is that all that is required?”

Elinor grew even more flustered, and was irritated that she had been so easily bested. “That is all well beside the point. You wrote that you spoke to Christopher? What did he say?”

“As I mentioned in my letter, he asked that I give you this in person. I did not presume to read it.”

Elinor accepted the letter from Lord Sutton hesitantly and stared at it for a moment. It seemed impossible that such an insubstantial document should contain such consequential tidings! After all these years, Elinor would finally know what had happened. She found that her previous excitement had transformed into anxiety. What if Papa was to blame? What if the man she adored had treated Christopher unjustly? 

After drawing a deep breath, Elinor turned it over to break the seal, before remembering herself.

“Do you mind if I—”

Lord Sutton waved off the question. “Of course not. I insist.”

And so Elinor read the words her brother had written:

_ Dearest Nora, _

_ I suspect it has been some time since anyone has called you that. Does it still make you scowl, as it did when you were small? It is strange that the child who used to protest being called ‘that dreadful name’ is now a woman grown. I admit that I did not recognise you at first the other night because I still imagine you as the girl you were when I saw you last.  _

_ How precious that girl was to me, and is to me still. I am grateful that I now have your image to join hers.  _

_ Much has transpired since we last saw one another. I scarcely know what to say, or where to begin. I am sorry I was not there for you and Mother when Father died. I deeply regret that I did not see him one last time, though I am comforted by the letters we exchanged through the years.  _

_ It will surprise you to know that Father and I were on such terms. You will wonder why I was not at his side at the end. The answer is simple: I promised Father that I would never return to Darlington. You should know that it was not with anger or cruelty that he extracted such a promise. Father was a man of great sympathy, as you are no doubt aware. He did not resent me for what I am or what I did, but he could not risk our family’s reputation — for your sake, above all.  _

_ You will not remember the events leading to my departure. It is impossible that you should, even if you were not so young. It was concealed from you, and even from Mother in large part. So I will offer a brief explanation, sparing as many unsavoury details as I can: I committed an indiscretion, the nature of which you may ask your friend Lord Sutton to explain, if he is willing — I will not put it to paper. There was, then, a risk that it would become known. It would have been disastrous for our family, and for your future prospects. This risk was successfully eliminated, with the aid of a not insignificant sum of money furnished by Mr. Worthington, which Father was, no doubt, unable to repay in his lifetime. (I am sure that Mr. Worthington has made no mention of it since that day. He very much merits the “worth” in his name.) _

_ There was, then, the question of what to do with me. If I was to remain a part of the family, I must promise to never commit such an indiscretion again, lest I destroy the happiness of my mother and jeopardise my sister’s future. If I wished to live freely — or with some degree of freedom, at least — I must leave and never come back. I would not be disinherited, but I would be required to forever maintain my distance. My mother and sister must become strangers to me, and, in the world’s eyes, my father would be as well.  _

_ It was not an easy decision, but I chose to remain true to myself. I have gone by a different name so that my connection to you would not be known, and so that it would be more difficult for anyone from my past to find me — you and Mother included. (I admit that I am somewhat surprised that I have managed to go unrecognised for so many years, though no doubt it is because I attended neither Eton, nor Oxford, nor Cambridge — that is how all men of consequence seem to know one another.) I have traveled widely and have known happiness these past ten years, but I have missed you both terribly, and have often longed to write and visit. The temptation has been all the greater following Father’s death, but I know the risk of ruin is no less now than it was before.  _

_ I fear I am betraying the spirit of my promise to Father in even writing this letter, but I could not resist this opportunity to offer some small explanation of myself to you — nor would Lord Sutton brook my refusal. (What a champion you have won for yourself!) _

_ I dearly wish that this could be the start of a renewed relationship between us, but that cannot be. I would not risk it, and you would not either, if you understood all that was at stake.  _

_ Be well, sweet Elinor (I will let you have your way this once, and will not call you Nora). You were God’s great gift to our parents after their many bitter losses, and I know from our father’s letters that you were a balm to them in my absence. I am in your debt for that. I pray that your disappointments have been few, and will soon be forgotten. I pray that you will think of me kindly, despite my many failings. _

_ Your loving brother always, _

_ Christopher _

Elinor had told herself that she would react with equanimity regardless of the letter’s contents, but found herself overcome with emotion. She had all but forgotten about his name for her! How she had protested it, and how he would laugh at her indignation! 

Memories of Christopher flooded Elinor’s mind, unbidden. He was away at school much of her childhood, and though she was always shy of him when he first returned home for visits, it was never long before he won her over completely. When Elinor was small, he would carry her on his back through the woods, and would teach her the Latin words for all they saw. When she was a little older, he would convince her to play cricket with him, and would always let her win. Sometimes he sat with Elinor when she practised the pianoforte and turned the pages for her, though he inevitably grew impatient and would try to distract her and make her laugh. Elinor recalled, too, the days when Papa would read to her as she sat nestled beside him, and how even though Christopher had his own book and was nearly grown, he almost always set it aside to listen to Papa read.

How could Christopher bear being unable to see him one final time? It seemed horribly unjust. What could he have done to deserve such a fate? How she pitied him!

Elinor scarcely realised she was crying until Lord Sutton extended a handkerchief towards her. 

“Thank you,” she replied. She hastily dabbed at her eyes, folded it over, and handed it back to him.

“I hope you are not too distressed, Miss Hartwell,” he said, with an expression of genuine concern.

“No, not at all. I am only… It has been so very long.”

“His letter was not… disappointing, I trust?”

“He seems just as I remember him,” Elinor replied. “But I… I still do not...”

She read through the letter again, puzzled.

What could the “indiscretion” be, that he would not describe it in  _ any _ detail? If he were consumed by drink or gambling, surely he would have ruined his health by now, or have ended up in debtor’s prison? And Christopher could not think her so naive that she was ignorant of the fact that relations sometimes took place outside the bonds of marriage. If it were something of that nature, would he not have simply said so? And if, as his letter might suggest, he had fallen in love with an unsuitable woman that he was unwilling to give her up, would Elinor not have heard of it? Darlington was a small town. If Christopher had run off with another man’s wife, or a woman of low social standing, she doubted that even a significant sum of money could completely prevent discovery. The only explanation she had ever heard for her brother’s estrangement was that he made an imprudent investment and that he and Papa had fallen out over money, but that did not ring true. 

Moreover, what could Lord Sutton possibly know of events from ten years prior, in which he had no personal involvement? No, unless Christopher had told him what transpired (which Elinor doubted), Lord Sutton must know something of Christopher  _ now _ that would allow him to guess more easily than she what the indiscretion had been.

As reluctant as she was to ask (she knew teasing was inevitable), Elinor could not puzzle it out on her own. 

“Why, precisely, did you warn me against approaching my brother, Lord Sutton?” she asked finally.

He was surprised at first, then visibly amused. “Mysteries yet remain? Well, it is hardly a surprise that he would not commit certain facts to paper.”

“Are Christopher’s misdeeds so egregious? I do not understand how it is possible. He was always so good-natured, and there is no indication in his letter that time has altered his character.”

Lord Sutton hesitated before attempting an answer. “There are transgressions that do not require viciousness or ill-will to others.”

“I am not ignorant of that, Lord Sutton, but I do not see any evidence of an imprudent affair.”

“Because you are not considering the range of possibilities,” he replied, seemingly struggling to keep hilarity at bay. 

“There is of course the possibility that she was of low standing, but surely someone—”

“That is not what I meant.”

“Then I do not understand you,” Elinor replied impatiently. 

“Have you asked yourself how it is it that your brother keeps company with one of far greater standing than he?”

“How is it that one of  _ your _ standing keeps company with lesser persons? Through the bonds of friendship, or…”

Elinor had nearly said “love,” but could not bring herself to — it seemed too pointed an allusion to their unpleasant conversation in Mrs. Bristow's drawing room.

“Or?” Lord Sutton prompted.

When she did not respond, he supplied the answer: “Affection, or attraction, if you prefer.”

“I cannot see how the company he keeps explains anything,” Elinor replied curtly. 

“You might consider what I have just said in the context of your brother’s relationship with Lord Penhall.”

It took Elinor a moment to understand the implication, and when she did, she grew scarlet. Surely it was preposterous!

Elinor looked back at the letter as a pretense for avoiding Lord Sutton’s gaze. Would he invent such a story to amuse himself? She would not have put it past him once, but now she was reluctant to believe that he would say such a thing were it not true.

If it  _ was _ true —  _ could it possibly be? _ — then could the indiscretion to which Christopher referred have likewise involved another man? An unscrupulous man who threatened to expose him, perhaps?

Elinor was certain her father would stoop to borrow money from Mr. Worthington only under the most dire circumstances, if he felt it necessary to preserve the family’s honour. Why would he do so to conceal a dalliance with an unmarried woman, or a married one? For better or worse, the shame in either case would primarily be  _ theirs,  _ not Christopher’s; it would fall to  _ their _ father or husband to pay to keep the truth concealed. Allowances were made for young men that were not made for women. 

“It appears that you understand me now,” observed Lord Sutton.

“I believe that either you are mistaken or I am,” Elinor replied, her face unbearably hot. 

“I am confident that  _ I _ am not mistaken. And if you are as troubled as you appear, you are almost certainly  _ not _ . Come, Miss Hartwell, have you not had any exposure to the classics?”

“My Latin is far from fluent, and I have no Greek at all, but have read Chapman’s translations of the Iliad and the Odyssey, and Pope’s, and some works of philosophy,” replied Elinor, bewildered at first, and then irritated. “Why do you ask? What has that to do with anything?”

“Plato and Herodotus have written on the subject, though I would not be surprised if those works have not been translated for the benefit of young ladies,” Lord Sutton explained in a pedantic tone of voice, laced with mirth. “As you are familiar with the Iliad, I would observe that Achilles and Patroclus were said to share a relationship of that kind.”

“I think I would recall if there were anything of the sort in the translations I read,” Elinor replied doubtfully.

“I am sure you  _ would _ , Miss Hartwell. It was not explicit.”

“One could hardly expect peoples in every age and of every nation to share our Christian values,” Elinor said after a moment, unable to think of any more sensible contribution to the conversation. 

She was also suddenly conscious of the fact that they stood on holy ground, and wondered whether they ought to move elsewhere if they were to continue to speak of such matters. 

“Sagely spoken. Your brother, however, is of our age  _ and _ nation. Do your Christian values not require you to condemn a sodomite?”

Elinor knew Lord Sutton spoke in jest, but it was true that she no longer knew what to make of her brother. Surely it  _ was _ wrong for a man to prefer another man to a woman, though Elinor knew of no reason why that  _ must _ be the case, other than that it was unheard of in polite society. No doubt there was something on the subject in the Bible — Elinor did not know the term “sodomite,” but supposed that it must derive from the tale of Sodom and Gomorrah. She could not pretend to be an avid reader of scripture. She attended services regularly, of course, but would be hard pressed to remember what passages were read on any given day, for her mind was prone to wander. The local vicar in Darlington was a kindly old man, but a gifted orator he was not. 

“Kindness and forgiveness are the Christian values of greatest importance to  _ me _ ,” Elinor said at last. “I will try to understand him, and to forgive.”

“How magnanimous of you,” Lord Sutton replied dryly. 

“Why do you say it in that manner?”

She glanced up at Lord Sutton and could tell he was once again near to laughing at her.

“Do I amuse you,  _ sir _ ?” Elinor demanded impertinently. “I do not think it unreasonable that I should struggle for a brief time with what you have told me!”

“You do indeed amuse me, but do not judge yourself too severely. I doubt any woman of  your background would be capable of receiving such news with more grace than you have shown.”

Elinor could hardly be flattered by  _ that _ . 

She knew it must be well beyond the bounds of propriety to speak of such things with  _ anyone _ — much less with a member of the opposite sex, as an unmarried woman — but she could not stifle her curiosity. 

“Is it not unusual?” Elinor asked, her voice noticeably higher than usual, even as she endeavoured to speak as quietly as possible. “Even if the Greeks and Romans engaged in such conduct, it cannot be commonplace in our time.”

“In this civilised, Christian age, you mean?” Lord Sutton asked in an affected baroque accent. 

He grew serious, however, when he began his explanation in earnest. “It is not commonplace, but your brother and Lord Penhall are scarcely the only men who prefer the company of their own sex. One must be discreet, however. It is a hanging offense, though men of their stature would only be prosecuted under the most extraordinary circumstances. Even setting aside the punishment, it is not an accepted predilection in most circles.”

“A hanging offense?” Elinor cried. “What for?”

“Because buggery is an offense against God and nature, I believe,” Lord Sutton replied, with a roll of his eyes.

Elinor was also unfamiliar with the term “buggery,” but could guess at its general meaning, and would not hazard the humiliation of asking for the precise definition. 

“Even if that is so… is that not an extreme punishment for a crime where no other person is injured in the breach?”

“You astonish me, Miss Hartwell,” Lord Sutton replied, with yet another ironic smile, bringing his hand to his chest in feigned indignation. “Are not the very morals of our nation compromised by such conduct?”

Elinor knew that there was little she could say on this subject that would  _ actually _ offend or provoke Lord Sutton, but felt defensive nonetheless. “I admit I do not understand it at all, but it need not follow that I must despise Christopher and wish him dead!”

Lord Sutton laughed, but it was devoid of any mockery. “No, it need  _ not _ . I myself will never be confused for a good Christian, and thus try not to concern myself with other men’s failings. I certainly do not wish death upon any man — or woman — based upon whom he or she chooses to bed.”

The reference to bedding only reminded Elinor how far they had strayed from the bounds of proper conversation. 

“My father did not despise him,” Elinor observed after a moment. She was glad of that, certainly, but the more she reflected on Papa, the more resentful she felt. He must have thought very little of his wife and daughter, indeed, to believe they could not bear the truth! And all the while,  _ he _ continued to enjoy a relationship with Christopher! 

“They wrote to one another through the years, and Papa never mentioned it to us,” Elinor continued, speaking as much to herself as to Lord Sutton. “Why do men think that women wish to be shielded from all that is difficult or unpleasant?”

Lord Sutton appeared to contemplate this before venturing a response. “Some men believe women too delicate to endure even the slightest inconvenience. I would be surprised if any father of  _ yours _ had such a low opinion of a woman’s capacities. Perhaps he suspected that it would be impossible for you to accept the boundaries that must remain in place for your protection. Was he wrong? Do you not — in spite of all you have learned — intend to request that I arrange a meeting with your brother?”

Elinor could not bring herself to deny it. “If it were done discreetly…”

Lord Sutton was entertained by her audacity, even as he shook his head. “He has insisted to me that it is impossible, and has no doubt said the same to you in his letter.”

“Yes, he  _ did _ … but surely there is  _ somewhere _ he and I could meet without being recognised! Is it truly so reckless? I am grateful that I now understand what happened, but I still know nothing of how he has spent the past ten years! I only wish to speak to him once, and then I will obey my father’s wishes and his, and will leave him in peace.”

“Will you indeed?” Lord Sutton asked, with a dubious arch of his brow. 

Elinor had spent the better part of her life doing her utmost to be a dutiful daughter, for she knew that she was all that remained to her parents. Perhaps she had been obstinate in her childhood, and perhaps a  _ trace _ of that obstinacy remained, but she resented Lord Sutton’s apparent belief that she was intractable.

“I am not as stubborn or reckless as you may believe, Lord Sutton. Ordinarily, I am the soul of discretion!”

“I appreciate that you do not claim to ‘ordinarily’ be the opposite of  _ stubborn _ .”

Elinor ignored this response and continued. “I know that I cannot possibly pursue a meeting with Christopher without your assistance, and that you have already done more for me than I had any right to hope. I  _ am _ sincerely grateful to you — and all the more so now that I understand that any dealings with Christopher might expose you to embarrassment. I will not ask you to further intercede if you believe it unwise. Indeed, I know that I have no right to ask anything more of you under any circumstances.”

Lord Sutton regarded her coldly. “But you  _ wish _ to ask, or hope that  _ I _ will offer out of the goodness of my heart.”

Elinor stared, perplexed. She had intended to be gracious and deferential — she truly  _ was _ prepared to abandon her hope of meeting Christopher, if she must — but her words had only irritated him. 

“Have I said something to offend?”

“Do not concern yourself with whether you have the right, Miss Hartwell. You may or may not, and I may or may not agree to assist, but you do not offend me by asking. So  _ ask _ . I would sooner that you did so forthrightly than assume an obsequious tone with me.”

Elinor knew not what to make of this speech. 

She hesitated, and then asked, sincerely, “Do you truly think it unwise, Lord Sutton?”

“I meant that you may ask for my assistance without flattery and equivocation, Miss Hartwell,” he answered impatiently. “I did not mean that you are obliged to ask my opinion.”

“I was not trying to flatter you, and I do not ask for your opinion because I feel obliged. I ask because I believe your judgment to be sound, even if you are a poor Christian and a libertine.”

Lord Sutton struggled to conceal a smile at that description. “Very well. You have assured me that you are cold-hearted. It should be simple enough, then, for you to walk away from such a meeting with neither hope nor desire of ever seeing your brother again.”

Elinor frowned. Certainly he could express his views  _ without _ irony. 

“I promise you, Lord Sutton, I will not pester you endlessly to arrange further meetings. Even if I am as stubborn as you seem to believe, I possess  _ some _ restraint. Besides, my time in town will come to an end soon enough, and I doubt I will be back for another season anytime soon.”

Lord Sutton considered her words and then sighed in resignation. “It  _ could _ be done discreetly. You may not be exposing yourself to any great risk in  _ that _ regard, but I fear that this will end only in your disappointment.”

Elinor had not thought his hesitation would be on that ground. 

“I know that it will be difficult,” she replied, with as much self-assurance as she could muster. “Yet I think I must pursue this — not only for my sake, but my mother’s as well. Will you help me?”

“Yes.”

His immediate and unequivocal response left Elinor dumbstruck. “You will?”

“You were never taught the proverb about gift horses, were you, Miss Hartwell?” he replied impatiently. 

Lord Sutton was right to rebuke her. Elinor was not entitled to know his motives, any more than she was entitled to the assistance he had freely offered. If he felt obliged to make amends for his prior behaviour, why should she discourage him? 

“Forgive me. Whatever your reasons, I am more grateful than I can possibly express. Thank you, Lord Sutton —  _ thank you! _ ”

He gave a dismissive wave of his hand. 

Though she knew it was ungracious under the circumstances, Elinor could not resist teasing him a little. “You are becoming a true philanthropist, my lord. I hardly recognise you.”

Lord Sutton glared, though the slightest of smiles pulled at the corner of his mouth. “I will write when I have news, Miss Hartwell.”

He started to go and then hesitated. He seemed to deliberate for a spell before speaking. “When we are alone, you may call me ‘Sutton,’ if you prefer.”

Elinor knew not how to react. She realised she was gaping at him before she forced herself to lower her eyes. That form of address was usually reserved for close acquaintances, and usually only men at that. 

“Then I shall, my — Sutton. And you might call me Elinor, if you like, under the same circumstances.”

She knew this was unquestionably improper, yet it seemed absurd to adhere to the usual rules of propriety given all they knew of one another. Still, Elinor had not managed to convey the offer with any real conviction. 

Lord Sutton might have laughed at her — and certainly would have done in the not-so-distant past — but he did not do so now. 

“You’re certain that you would not prefer to be called ‘Nora’?” he asked, with gentle good humour.

Elinor was grateful that he had dispelled any lingering awkwardness with this jest.

“No, I would  _ not _ ,” she replied. “And you would not care to know what I would call  _ you _ if you chose to do so.”

“Oh? I rather think I  _ would _ .”

“Goodbye, Sutton,” Elinor replied with mock impatience, and took her leave.

Though she was required to spend the remainder of the afternoon with the Vernons, and witnessed yet more of Mr. Vernon’s absurd courtship, Elinor remained in high spirits. She found the Royal Menagerie and all its exotic creatures captivating, and even enjoyed a pleasant conversation with Violet Vernon, who was, she realised, much sweeter and less pretentious than her elder sister, who so often dominated their conversations.

When Mary and Elinor returned to Mrs. Bristow’s, and were once again alone in their room, Elinor freely offered an apology for her sulking the past few days. Elinor did not tell Mary all that she discovered — she did not think she had the right to disclose the nature of Christopher’s indiscretion — but she explained the contents of the letter in broad strokes and told Mary that Lord Sutton was going to attempt to arrange a meeting between Elinor and her brother.

“I am relieved that you finally received some answers, and am glad that you have reason to hope for a reunion,” Mary said, though she appeared bemused. “Yet I had thought something more significant might have happened, for it seemed that you could not stop smiling this afternoon.”

Elinor coloured and assured Mary that she had no cause for her good cheer but the prospect of seeing her brother again. 


	19. Interlude I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive this entirely self-indulgent epistolary interlude. I find writing letters so much fun, and now that our protagonists are on such terms that they would plausibly write to one another, I couldn't resist. Back to the regularly scheduled programming next time.

* * *

Interlude I

* * *

_Dear Sutton,_

_I do not write to pester you for news, though I of course welcome any tidings you may have. There is something else I wished to ask, which I hope is not a chore — I recall that you are a great collector of art, and that is what my query pertains to._

_I was at the exhibition at the Royal Academy with Miss Earlwood and the Vernons — always with the Vernons; I wonder if you know them? — and it occurred to me that I was so overwhelmed by the volume of works that I spent scarcely any time appreciating one painting before I turned to the next. I wonder if there are any paintings that you prefer among those at the Royal Academy, or at any of the other London galleries. I believe my time would be better spent studying several consequential pieces at length, rather than attempting to view the greatest possible number._

_No doubt there are many you enjoy, and it would be tedious to list them all, so I will be most appreciative if you would identify even a choice few._

_Yours in gratitude,_

_Elinor_

* * *

_Elinor,_

_I am confident that your purpose was, if not to “pester for news,” then at least to discern whether there have been any developments. I will not dignify your underhanded efforts with a response, though you may trust that I am at work._

_I do not believe I know the Vernons. If they are eligible young ladies, you can be assured that I have refused to learn their names, even if they were at one time provided to me. Mrs. Dalton often says that, for all the time I spend here, I know fewer people than any other member of the ton. That is how I prefer it. If they have a father or brother who attends my club, or a mother willing to speak of something other than their accomplishments, then I will be glad to know_ _them_ _. But unmarried ladies are a scourge upon my time._

_As for the purported subject of your letter (a transparent subterfuge), I am not generally fond of a portrait, which excludes a great number of the works at the exhibition. Turner is, of course, a tremendous talent, and I admire Constable’s work as well. I find their focus on nature, and their use of light and shadow, refreshing. They each have a number of pieces in the exhibition, so you may find that the study of their paintings alone will occupy a fair amount of time. Though you will certainly not find them in the Royal Academy, William Blake’s works are also fascinating if you should ever happen upon them._

_— Sutton_

* * *

_Sutton,_

_You do surprise me with your sentiments concerning unmarried women. I feel that I must write in defense of myself and those in my situation. It is not our fault that we have been cast into this role. If men such as you were to reply, for once, that you do not wish to hear a litany of accomplishments or of lofty relations, but rather to know the young lady’s true and genuine opinion on such and such matter, then perhaps this whole business would grow less tedious for all with time. Surely it cannot be for the young ladies to initiate the change._

_You must not suppose that we do not tire of it as well. I did once consider my accomplishments something I pursued for my own enrichment and edification, yet now I feel that they are nothing but senseless words that I am to rattle off on command, as though I were one of those fantastical birds in the Royal Menagerie._

_I am obliged to point out that you will be required to endure the company of eligible young ladies when you finally seek a bride of your own, though I am sure that will not occur for some years (yet I beseech you not to enter the marriage market at forty, when you will be no less than two decades the elder of any poor young lady you are likely to wed). I hope that you will remember then what I have said, and will do your best to be kind. I trust I will not be_ _such_ _a distant memory that you will be unable to recall how you once managed it, even with one of my low breeding._

_Now that I have said my piece on that matter, I wish to thank you for your response to my query, which was not, as you so boldly claimed, a subterfuge. I have prevailed upon Mrs. Bristow to bring me to the Royal Academy again, and will be sure to seek out Turner’s and Constable’s works._

_Yours in agitation and the most reluctant appreciation,_

_Elinor_

* * *

_Elinor,_

_I will admit that I laughed aloud at your allusion to the manner in which I once described your breeding. I suspected that you were one to dwell on insults, and now have my confirmation. If it is of any consolation, I confess that I chose my words poorly._

_I appreciate your spirited defense of the unmarried members of your sex. I am not without sympathy for your trials. Yet I would observe that it cannot only be the men to initiate a change. If I were to speak as you suggest to most young ladies, they would be astonished by my frankness, and then would either answer the question I have asked about such and such matter in the manner prescribed by their dear mamas, or would profess themselves to know little of the matter, having received no previous counsel from mama as to the appropriate response._

_With respect to my marriage, you need not worry that I will inflict myself on a maid of sixteen years in two decades’ time. I have no intention of marrying. You will agree, no doubt, that I am not fit to be anyone’s husband. My father’s second cousin has issue, and they are welcome to my title and fortune once I am gone._

_As regards the matter nearest to your heart — It is my intention to have a secure meeting place arranged before I approach Christopher, for I doubt he will consent to a meeting unless he has full assurance that there will be no risk to you. I have an idea, and, if all goes to plan, I will inform you of the details anon._

_— Sutton_

* * *

_Sutton,_

_I wonder that you think I would agree with what you have said on the subject of your marriage. I have, of course, given no thought to the matter — in reflecting on it now, I must agree that it would not be fair for you to marry if you intended to continue with your rakish ways. I suspect poor Christians can make perfectly serviceable husbands, though I doubt a committed libertine could. The children of your father’s second cousin are to be envied, and commended for their good fortune. I must make some inquiries as to whether there are any such as you in the Hartwell family tree — perhaps I will be spared the marriage market after all!_

_I am gratified to know that I continue to amuse you. I will admit that it is in my nature to dwell on insults, for better or ill (for ill, I would imagine), though I continue to refute that I am any more stubborn than anyone else — to wit, than_ _you_ _. Actions speak volumes more than words, yet an apology would still not go amiss. However, I suspect a certain viscount has decided that he shall never apologise to anyone (or perhaps that commitment is particular to one?)._

_I tease, of course. A thousand apologies would, to me, mean precious little when compared to the service you have undertaken. I trust your judgment in this matter completely, and shall patiently await further news._

_Yours in perfect docility,_

_Elinor_


	20. Sutton IX

* * *

Sutton IX

* * *

On further consideration, and much to his irritation, Lord Sutton realised that he had been foolish to so confidently declare that Elinor’s reunion with her brother could be accomplished with no risk to the young lady.

There was no shortage of places where Elinor and Christopher might meet without being recognised by any member of the ton. _That_ was not the issue. Sutton posed the question to members of his club and, after some initial reluctance from those he queried, received a list of inns and taverns in all corners of the city where one could meet with one’s mistress or conduct business one wished to keep quiet with very little risk to one’s reputation.

Yet Sutton had also to consider how Elinor would reach the meeting place in the first instance. She must invent some excuse to the Earlwoods and Mrs. Bristow as to why they ought to allow her to leave unaccompanied, and, if she was unable to make use of Mrs. Bristow’s carriage, must either hire a hackney coach or borrow Sutton’s. Each posed a not inconsiderable obstacle. When agitated, Elinor had the unfortunate (though at times endearing) habit of betraying her emotions on her face. And surely it would be remarked upon if she were seen boarding a public coach alone, to say nothing of what would be said if she were seen boarding _his_. 

Nor was Sutton overfond of the idea of sending Elinor to an inn or tavern of questionable repute. He did not doubt that she was willing to endure coarse behaviour if it meant she could speak to Christopher, but it did not strike him as a particularly chivalrous means of fulfilling his charge.

Sutton was beginning to doubt the entire enterprise when Elinor’s first letter arrived. Though she was gracious enough to allude to the matter only briefly, he doubted that she would be disposed to continue their correspondence if he confessed to being unable to arrange a meeting. He had always enjoyed his repartee with Elinor, even when he pretended to despise her, and found that he liked it all the better now that there was no bitterness in their words.

With each additional letter exchanged, Sutton grew more resolute that he must find a way for Elinor and Christopher to meet. He would not disappoint her. 

Sutton therefore decided he must take a different tact. The location must first and foremost be a private place where Elinor might go alone without deceiving the Earlwoods and Mrs. Bristow. Admitting Christopher in secret was not so great an obstacle in Sutton’s view. The greater impediment was that the host must be _willing_ to admit him. 

There were only two places Sutton could think of that satisfied these requirements: Mrs. Dalton’s home or Lady Rossington’s. 

He knew not who he dreaded more to approach. Sutton scarcely knew Lady Rossington. There was a good chance that she was not even aware that her nephew was in town, and her behaviour towards Elinor at her ball did not suggest that her niece or nephew held any claim to her affection. It was likely, too, that she would be vexed that he would even suggest that she be party to such a meeting.

Even so, Sutton was more reluctant to seek Mrs. Dalton’s assistance than Lady Rossington’s. It was not only that she would chide and tease him, and say that all was transpiring exactly as she had predicted — though he certainly was not eager to endure such comments. If he accepted her assistance (which he believed that she would eventually agree to furnish, albeit reluctantly), it would no doubt seem to Elinor that Sutton turned to Mrs. Dalton to resolve every trial that arose in his life. It also occurred to Sutton that Mrs. Dalton would merit as much, if not more, gratitude as he if the meeting took place at her home. It was selfish, but he did not wish to share credit. And Elinor’s awe would certainly be all the greater if he succeeded in convincing her haughty aunt to assist in the reunion. 

Sutton would seek Mrs. Dalton’s assistance if he must, but resolved that he would try his luck first with Lady Rossington.

In the hours preceding his visit to the lady, Sutton was more nervous than he had been before he went to confess his feelings to Elinor. He supposed it was because the stakes were higher — it had seemed unimaginable at _that_ time that he would ever gain Elinor’s good opinion, and now… Had her letters not betrayed something approaching fondness? 

Sutton would have had a drink to steady his nerves, but did not want to risk Lady Rossington smelling it and thinking ill of him. As he put on his gloves, he realised that his palms were sweating. Sutton could not help but laugh at himself — Lord, he was even more of a mess than he had been before he had his first woman! 

Eventually Sutton summoned his nerve and went to call on Lady Rossington. He had sent his card ahead that morning, and hoped he would not have to endure the company of other callers before he would have an opportunity to speak to Lady Rossington alone. He was relieved when he was shown into her drawing room and found only the lady herself, who was occupied with her embroidery. 

“Good afternoon, my lady,” Sutton said with a bow. 

“To what do I owe this rarest of honours, my lord?” Lady Rossington replied, rising briefly to curtsy.

Sutton took a seat and considered whether he ought to engage in pleasantries or delve straight into the matter at hand. He opted for the latter. Sutton doubted that Lady Rossington would be any more kindly disposed to him if he inquired after her health.

“I am afraid that I am here concerning a matter of some delicacy,” Sutton confessed. 

Lady Rossington frowned. “Is this to do with my husband, perchance?” 

“No,” Sutton replied, perplexed, before he realised that she must believe he was here in connection with an unpaid debt. “Even if I had business of that nature, I would not involve a lady.”

“How kind,” Lady Rossington replied, recommencing her embroidery. She did not sound particularly impressed with his solicitude. 

“I wonder if you know that I am acquainted with your niece,” said Sutton. “I met her in Darlington some months ago, and have seen her now in town several times — including at your ball.”

Lady Rossington did not look up from her needlework, though a slight frown pulled at the corners of her mouth. “Oh?” 

Sutton took a moment to steel himself before jumping in headlong. “It must be many years since both your niece _and_ nephew were in town, my lady.”

Lady Rossington froze. Her gaze met his for only a moment before she looked back down at her work.

“My nephew? You are mistaken. I have not heard from my nephew in nearly ten years,” she replied coolly. 

Sutton could not help but smile, though he knew it would not endear him to her. “It is not widely known, to be sure, but as his aunt, _you_ must realise that Christopher and Mr. Loveton are one and the same.”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Lady Rossington replied primly, though impatience had crept into her tone. 

“Miss Hartwell does,” Sutton continued. “You may rely upon _her_ to recognise her own brother.”

Lady Rossington set aside her embroidery and folded her hands in her lap, her grey eyes hard.

“What is it that you are after, Lord Sutton?” 

Sutton no longer had cause to be amused by their little dance and assumed a conciliatory tone. “I am not here to blackmail you, as I fear you may believe. I am here because your niece wishes to speak to her brother, and I can think of nowhere that Miss Hartwell and Christopher could meet with less risk to the young lady’s reputation than your house. If the meeting were to occur here, she need lie to no one, nor travel to a sordid establishment where respectable people dare not show their faces.”

Lady Rossington’s expression did not soften. “You know what he is, and would still bring that man into _my_ house?”

Sutton was not cowed, and maintained a pleasant smile. “I assure you, I would not have him announce himself during calling hours. There is a separate entrance for your servants, is there not?”

Sutton thought he saw some sign that the lady was considering it, though she looked anything but pleased.

“I will not risk it,” she replied after a moment. “ _She_ ought not risk it.”

“Perhaps not, but Miss Hartwell is set upon it. They are your dead brother’s children, and have not been at liberty to speak to one another in ten years. Will you not even consider it?”

It was a cheap trick, Sutton knew, to bring the late Mr. Hartwell into the matter, but needs must. 

The mention of her brother seemed to irritate Lady Rossington. It remained to be seen whether this was a move in the right direction.

“I assisted my nephew Christopher when he became estranged from his family, though he did not do me the courtesy of telling me the cause for it. As for Elinor…”

Having already unsettled Lady Rossington, Sutton decided that he ought to continue on the offense, come what may.

“Pray tell,” he rejoined. “You seem to have a particular dislike for her.”

Lady Rossington glared. “Do not presume to speak to _me_ of matters that you do not understand, my lord. I would have happily done more for Elinor. When she was a girl, my husband and I offered to take her on — to raise her here, in town, where she would have the best of everything. For all their hand-wringing over their lack of fortune, my brother and his wife behaved as though we were mad to even suggest it.”

Sutton had not anticipated an admission of this kind and was unsure what to say. 

“I see. And you resent Elinor for her parents’ refusal?” he asked after some hesitation. 

This was not the correct response. Lady Rossington’s fair face grew crimson.

“If you think your rank excuses your incomparable impertinence—”

Sutton bowed his head deferentially. It was time for a hasty retreat.

“I do not. I apologise. I am unaccustomed to beg, but I ask you sincerely to consider what I have proposed. Your niece would be forever grateful, and I would be in your debt.”

Lady Rossington studied him, before she sighed and picked up her embroidery again.

“You have already had Elinor’s virtue, I suppose.”

Sutton could not help but laugh at the nonchalant manner in which she said it. Her tone was as unconcerned as if she had asked whether he had dined yet or no. Despite himself, Sutton was beginning to like the woman.

“No, I have _not_. I have always avoided dalliances with unattached young ladies whose families might prevail upon me to marry them — your niece is no exception.”

Lady Rossington arched a brow but did not look up from her needlework. “Then why have you involved yourself in this matter?”

“To repay a debt of sorts,” he answered.

“To Elinor?” Lady Rossington scoffed. “Of _what_ sort?”

The battle had not yet grown so desperate that he must admit the entirety of the truth. Sutton would try a half-measure and hope for the best. 

“I wronged her in the past, though not in the manner you suppose. I seek her good opinion, that is all.”

“That is worth something to you?” Lady Rossington asked doubtfully.

“Yes.”

She considered this for a moment but shook her head. “I owe them nothing.”

Sutton rose to his feet. He was irritated and impatient, and though it was within his power to conceal these emotions, he decided that making a show of them may further his cause. 

“Is that what family is then — all ledgers and score-keeping? Only that which is owed is granted? I admit to having little experience of it, though it appears that I have not missed out on anything much.”

Lady Rossington looked up at him, neither smiling nor frowning. Then she gave a pleasant laugh and gestured for him to sit again.

“You _are_ most diverting, my lord,” she said. She was quiet for some time, and pulled her coloured thread through the tambour with impressive speed. Sutton shifted uncomfortably, uncertain of whether this signified the end of their meeting. 

But then Lady Rossington spoke again, her tone authoritative. “I will invite Elinor to stay with me for a day or two next week. Tell my nephew to go to the servant’s entrance the evening of Thursday next. He should dress in traveling clothes, and must say to whomever answers that he is here to collect a debt from my husband and will not leave until it is paid. As Lord Rossington will be away, a servant will bring this news to me, and I will agree to meet with him.” 

Sutton had not expected that she would give in so soon, nor that she would have thought everything through. He was dumbfounded at first, but now could not help but marvel at his handiwork.

“You are smiling, Lord Sutton,” observed Lady Rossington. “I suppose you are thinking that this scenario must often arise, for it came to me so readily.”

“My mind is entirely blank, my lady.”

Her agreeable expression grew severe once more. “I tell you this now: this will only happen once.” 

“We are agreed on that,” he replied firmly.

Sutton was so swept up in his delight that he surprised himself _and_ Lady Rossington by bending to take her hand and kissing it. 

“Yes, yes — no need for that,” she replied, withdrawing her hand with a smirk. “One must do one’s Christian duty, I suppose, and help those who are less fortunate.”

Sutton sobered and bowed, and was about to take his leave when she spoke again, though her focus was once again on her tambour. 

“My brother and I were close when we were young — before my father ruined himself and our good name. Christopher had a clever mind, but neither common sense nor strength of will. He was content to let it all happen. A better man would have fought to restore his dignity — our family’s dignity. Instead my brother crept away to the country and left me here to be the laughing stock of the ton.”

Sutton had never had cause to consider things from Lady Rossington’s point of view. He had found her manner unpleasant in the past, but had not supposed that it was her way of coping with the pain of never quite belonging.

Lady Rossington shook her head in a dismissive manner. “You need not endeavour a response, Lord Sutton. Elinor is not to blame, I grant you, yet it is often the case that the sins of the father are visited upon the son. But I will do this for her, and for you. And I trust that if I should ever need a favour of my own, you will be receptive.”

“You will find me so, I assure you,” Sutton said, with another gallant bow, and left. 

He could scarcely believe his good fortune. With Lady Rossington’s agreement, all that remained was to approach Christopher with his plan. Sutton knew not the man’s address and was now insistent that he would not go to Mrs. Dalton for assistance of any kind. If he was unable to find him by the Serpentine on Sunday, he would make his own inquiries. 

Sutton grew restless waiting for Sunday to come, though it was only two days away. He spent the remainder of that afternoon at the club, but did not wish to squander his time in drinking and gaming on the day that followed. His correspondence with Elinor had reminded him of how little time he had passed at the Royal Academy this year. He had been there the day the exhibition opened, of course, but had been drawn into conversation with so many people that he had not spent nearly as much time as he would have liked examining the works.

Sutton was in the inner room, frowning at the sheer volume of unremarkable portraits, when he caught sight of Turner’s painting depicting the eruption of the Soufriere Mountains. He drew closer to inspect it and noticed, with a start, that the young lady who was presently admiring it was none other than Elinor Hartwell herself.

Though Sutton came to stand rather close, Elinor did not take note of him until he spoke. 

“How serendipitous that I should find you here.”

“Lord Sutton!” Elinor cried. Her astonishment soon gave way to an expression of delight. Sutton did his best to disregard how his chest clenched upon seeing it. It had very little to do with _him_ , after all.

“You must finally concede, my lord, that my letter was _not_ a subterfuge,” Elinor said, doing a poor job of suppressing a self-satisfied smile. “Here I am, admiring Turner’s work, just as you advised.”

“I need do nothing of the kind, Miss Hartwell,” he replied. “Though one cannot help but be impressed by your commitment to your deceit. How did you know you would find me here today? Have you a spy in my ranks?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Your judgment in general is dubious, Lord Sutton, yet I will concede that you have passable judgment when it comes to art, and will offer my gratitude for _that_. I should never have imagined that a painting without any people in it could convey such emotion. It should be no surprise, for nature itself never fails to evoke wonder, yet so many of the landscapes I have seen in the past are so neat and proper, and leave me cold. I feel the danger and the majesty of the natural world in Turner’s paintings. Indeed, they are like nothing I have ever seen.”

Sutton realised that he was staring at her and looked away, clearing his throat. “Yes, just so.”

“Naturally my thoughts on his work cannot be at all original,” added Elinor diffidently. 

Sutton saw that she had taken the brevity of his response to mean that he was unimpressed with her observations, rather than as an indication of embarrassment. 

“You said that our meeting was serendipitous,” Elinor remarked, before he had the chance to correct her misperception. “Does that mean you have news? Or do you count yourself fortunate merely for having spied me?”

Sutton would have done, but did not intend to admit that to Elinor. 

“I have yet to speak to your brother, but you may expect a letter from your aunt shortly,” replied Sutton calmly, though he could not have felt more pleased to convey the news. He kept his focus on the painting, but could see from the corner of his eye that Elinor was staring at him in astonishment.

“ _Lady Rossington_?” Elinor cried. “My aunt is to be involved?”

“What could be more unremarkable than a young lady visiting her aunt? And if another visitor should happen to appear after fall of darkness...” 

Sutton leaned closer and added, in a low voice, “There are many places in this city where a meeting _could_ take place, but you would be required to account for your absence to your guardians. I do not intend this as an insult, Miss Hartwell, but I do not trust that you could lie about this matter without rousing suspicion.”

“I do not doubt that you are right about that,” Elinor replied, glancing up at him with raised brows. “I am immensely relieved to hear that this meeting will not require duplicity on my end. But how on earth did you manage it? My aunt dislikes me so!”

“The truth is not as simple as that,” he answered. “As for how I managed it… I am now at Lady Rossington’s mercy. Her wish is my command.”

Sutton said this playfully, but Elinor grew disconcerted. 

“Then _your_ wish must be mine, Lord Sutton, for I am the reason you are in this position!”

“What could I possibly ask of you, Miss Hartwell?” he asked gently, without any hint of provocation, though her words certainly lent themselves to innuendo.

Elinor realised this and coloured. She looked down at her programme with a frown.

“Nothing, of course,” she said after a moment, quietly. 

“And I _ask_ for nothing, of course,” Sutton assured her. 

Elinor looked up at him again, her expression inscrutable. Her lips parted, and it seemed as though she would speak, but then her gaze shifted to something behind him, and she gave an agitated sigh.

“Mrs. Bristow has noticed us. She will wish to relate to you my accomplishments, which I know you cannot abide. There may be very little I can do for you, Lord Sutton, but I _can_ spare you a conversation with her if we part ways now.”

He bowed his head in gratitude. “That is no small thing. I thank you.” 

Elinor gave a half-hearted smile in return, but appeared anxious.

“Miss Hartwell?”

“I would that there was _something_ I could do, Lord Sutton — to repay you,” Elinor said hastily, twisting her programme in her hands. “You must think on it. I am in earnest.”

“And I am in earnest when I say that I neither expect nor desire anything. Good day.”

It required a great deal of effort not to allow his gaze to drift back to Elinor. Sutton forced himself to study the artwork, yet had little success taking in anything he saw. 

* * *

On Sunday morning, Sutton spent an hour wandering Hyde Park before he observed Christopher making his way to the bank of the Serpentine. He was irked by this wait, though he had no legitimate cause to lament Christopher’s late arrival — he had not foregone any sleep in rising early that morning. Though Sutton knew it could not be _his_ fault if Christopher refused the meeting, his anxiety over that possibility had robbed him of rest the night before. He was so close to fulfilling his commission in as admirable a manner as he imagined possible, and hated the thought that it could all fall apart at this crucial juncture.

Christopher noticed Sutton from a distance and was shaking his head in amusement when Sutton reached him at last.

“To what do I owe the honour of this second visit, my lord?” Christopher asked. He had an easel with him this time, and was in the midst of setting it up. 

“Can a man not take the morning air without one assuming that he has an ulterior motive?” Sutton rejoined.

Both knew that Sutton was there for a reason, of course, though appearances must be maintained. Sutton was too much a creature of society to immediately dispense with all pretense. 

“I cannot imagine that _you_ are a man who takes a walk at half six for the pleasure of it,” replied Christopher good-humouredly. He opened his case of charcoals and set one on the easel. 

With studied nonchalance, he added, “I suppose you have something to tell me about your meeting with Elinor?”

“It went as well as one could hope,” Sutton replied. “There were smiles and tears, some confusion and embarrassment… I explained your circumstances to her.”

Christopher took up the charcoal and was poised to begin drawing, yet made no mark on the paper. “I can only imagine what Elinor thinks of me.”

“She thinks well enough of you to wish to meet you in person,” replied Sutton, watching Christopher’s face closely. 

Christopher flushed with displeasure but did not turn away from his easel. He made several dark marks on the page that did not strike Sutton as particularly artful. “And that is the errand that has brought you here today? I have told _you_ , just as I told her —”

“Hear me out before you begin to chastise,” Sutton replied. “There will be no risk to Miss Hartwell. Lady Rossington will host the meeting. You need only arrive at the servants’ entrance, dressed in traveling clothes, and act as though you are one of Lord Rossington’s creditors demanding immediate payment — the servants will not balk for a moment.”

Christopher applied such pressure to the charcoal that he snapped it in two. He regarded the broken pieces for a moment before turning to look at Sutton. “My aunt has truly agreed to this?”

“As it happens, the part about pretending to be a creditor was _her_ idea. Lady Rossington is sharp-witted.”

Christopher tossed the smaller portion of the broken charcoal into the water in irritation and started drawing with the remaining piece. “I still do not think it wise.”

“Even if there is no danger to Miss Hartwell?” Sutton asked impatiently.

Christopher abandoned the charade of drawing and turned to face Sutton. “Do not suppose that I do not care for my sister, or that I do not wish to see her. Yet I think there must be some wisdom to the adage about letting sleeping dogs lie.”

“Perhaps it would be easier for _you_ , but—”

“Yes, I must look after my _own_ interests, Lord Sutton. I am the only one who will. Elinor has always had plenty who are willing to look after _hers_.”

Sutton was rendered speechless. He had seen no sign of resentment in Christopher’s earlier conduct, nor did there appear to be any in his letter to Elinor, judging by her reaction. Yet Elinor had been able to remain with her parents, while her brother was cast off. Even if she bore no responsibility for the manner in which events had transpired, it was not unfathomable that Christopher should feel some bitterness.

“I see that I have managed to shock even _you_ , my lord,” Christopher said, rubbing the back of his neck abashedly. “I do not begrudge Elinor the fact that my parents sought to protect her, child that she was — and a girl, no less. Perhaps you can understand, Lord Sutton, that it is possible to love someone entirely, and _wish_ to see them, and yet know...”

“I offer no judgment,” Sutton replied. “I understand very little about these matters. I will say only this: I believe you will think back to this moment with regret in the future, should you choose not to meet with her. For Elinor’s part, I know she will regret not speaking to you for the rest of her life.”

Christopher met his eye. They were nearly the same height, both quite tall, and though there was nothing overtly confrontational about Christopher’s gaze, Sutton found himself straightening.

Christopher was the first to look away, and shook his head. “I have long supposed such a meeting to be impossible. I had not considered… But this will change nothing, Lord Sutton. And Elinor does not understand the difficulty of severing ties.”

“Was she not forced to do so once before?”

Christopher scoffed. “She was then barely ten years old. By now that pain can only be a distant memory to her. It is not so easy to forget when you are older.”

“It did not seem a distant memory to me,” Sutton replied brusquely. 

Sutton could see, however, that an aggressive advance would not result in gains here. Though he wished for nothing less than to emerge from this conversation having secured Christopher’s concession that he would show his face on Thursday night, it was clear that Christopher’s feelings on this matter were far more complicated than Sutton supposed. 

And Sutton could not dispute that there was little wisdom in picking at old wounds — though he himself must be charged guilty of the same. In the end, Sutton could only hope that thoughts of Elinor would induce her brother to be as foolish as _he_ was. 

Sutton’s weariness had caught up to him, and he rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I trust you recall where your aunt resides? Go Thursday evening, if you wish, in the manner I previously advised. Elinor will be waiting for you. I will not browbeat you, or attempt to force your hand. As you said, you must decide for yourself what is best.”

Christopher studied Sutton, his dark eyes grave. “It is ‘Elinor’ now, is it? It was ‘Miss Hartwell’ before.”

“What of it?” Sutton answered. “Were _you_ not Mr. Loveton before, and supposedly a stranger to her? It is now clear that we both know of whom I speak.”

Christopher looked down at his charcoal covered palms with a sigh. “I merely wonder whether you know what game it is you are playing, my lord.”

“I cannot imagine what you mean,” Sutton replied. “Though if you suppose a game is afoot, perhaps _you_ ought to warn her?”

Christopher smiled reluctantly. “Perhaps I shall.”

It was not the unqualified victory Sutton had hoped for, but he could do no better this day. And though he tried not to credit Christopher's insinuation, Sutton was forced to admit to himself that he knew not where and when his efforts with regards to Elinor would end. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're curious, you can view "The Eruption of the Soufrière Mountains in the Island of St Vincent, 30 April 1812" by J.M.W. Turner at the URL below:
> 
> https://artuk.org/discover/artworks/the-eruption-of-the-soufriere-mountains-in-the-island-of-st-vincent-30-april-1812-67007


	21. Elinor X

* * *

Elinor X

* * *

The letter from Lady Rossington bearing Elinor’s invitation arrived on a Tuesday afternoon. Though Elinor had received a note from Lord Sutton the prior day disclosing that Christopher’s attendance was yet uncertain, she did her best not to allow such news to dim her hopes. Certainly, she thought, Christopher would come around in the end. 

“Another one from your beau?” asked Mrs. Bristow with a wink as Elinor took the letter from the tray.

“My beau?” Elinor replied, baffled. 

“Do not suppose that I have not noted the way you have run off to your room whenever a letter has arrived this fortnight. I know of no other explanation for it!”

“You are mistaken, ma’am,” Elinor insisted, though the fact that she coloured did little to aid her cause. “I have no beau. I have had a few letters from a friend, that is all.”

“I should think _I_ would know the difference!” declared Mrs. Bristow. “It is not so very long ago that I had many a beau myself. I will not snoop, I assure you, though I trust you will tell me who the gentleman is in good time.”

Elinor had nothing to say in response, and opened the letter from her aunt without another word on the subject of beaus. After skimming its contents, she offered the letter to Mrs. Bristow.

“As it happens, ma’am,” Elinor said primly, “ _this_ letter is not from a gentleman, but from my aunt. Lord Rossington is to be out of town on business the next two days, and she wonders if I might go to stay with her during his absence, to keep her company.”

“Indeed?” cried Mrs. Bristow, squinting down at Lady Rossington’s spidery script. “Can this truly be the same Lady Rossington who showed so little concern for you at her ball?”

“Perhaps she wishes to make amends,” Elinor suggested. “I think I ought to give her the opportunity, if you and Mr. Earlwood will give me leave to go.”

“What objection could we possibly have, but that she has treated you so poorly? But if it is your wish, my dear —”

“It is,” Elinor replied, too eagerly. She lowered her eyes and added, “I have very little family left, Mrs. Bristow. My mother was orphaned quite young and has no siblings, and my aunt is the only one who remains on my father’s side of the family. I think I am obliged to try and be friends with Lady Rossington, if I am able.”

“An admirable sentiment,” said Mrs. Dalton. “Indeed, it cannot hurt to be on good terms with a lady, even one such as your aunt!”

And so a servant was sent over to Lady Rossington’s to convey Elinor’s acceptance of the invitation. It was settled that Lady Rossington would send her barouche to collect Elinor the following morning. 

While Elinor packed that afternoon, Mary sat on the bed in their room, adding trim to one of her older bonnets. It was one of her favoured pastimes, though Elinor could not understand why — Mary was rarely satisfied with the outcome of her handiwork, and as often as not picked out her stitches and started anew. Her projects always looked quite smart to Elinor, though she doubted she had an eye for such things. 

“It is a pity that it was all arranged for _this_ week, when we finally have vouchers for Almack’s!” Mary cried, right before she stabbed her finger with her needle while forcing it through the brim of the bonnet. She put the injured finger in her mouth with a scowl. 

“I know, but it is conceivable that we may secure them again before the season is out,” Elinor replied. She was debating which of her muslins to bring along, but paused to retrieve the thimble from her own sewing basket and offered it to Mary.

“Even if we do not,” Elinor continued, “I will not regret having missed it if _he_ should come.”

Though she doubted they would be overheard in their room, Elinor still avoided saying her brother’s name in anything above a whisper.

Mary examined her finger and tentatively recommenced her efforts with the thimble in place.

“I do hope the assembly rooms are as diverting as Vanessa has said,” she remarked. “I will tell you everything, of course.”

“I am sure you will have a marvelous time,” Elinor said. She hesitated before asking, “Mr. Vernon does not have a voucher, does he?”

“I do not know. I suppose you _hope_ he does not?”

Elinor sighed and set the dress that she had decided against back into her trunk. “I will not pretend to think highly of him. I hope you will keep an open mind tomorrow, and will entertain the attention of other gentlemen.”

Mary laughed. “My mind is entirely open, Elinor. My feelings for Mr. Vernon are nothing to what I once felt for Demetrius, of course, but it _is_ gratifying to be admired.”

“Once felt?” asked Elinor. “Do you no longer love Mr. Curtis?”

Mary paused, a distant expression on her face. She soon forced a smile and continued her work. “Who can say? I believe I _would_ if I ever saw him again, though I do not think that absence has made my heart grow fonder. Indeed, it has grown ever more bitter. I doubt if I could ever forgive him now, even if he sought my forgiveness.”

Elinor closed up her case and looked to Mary with pity, but her friend shook her head. 

“You must not worry about _me_ , Elinor. Think of Thursday, and of your reunion, and be glad!”

Elinor hardly needed the encouragement. She was up the next morning before the rest of the house, and was dressed and sitting in the drawing room shortly after the servants began to stir.

Elinor was anxious that she would have to spend two full days with Lady Rossington before finally meeting with Christopher (if he even came — but he _must_ !), though it was a small price to pay. Indeed, she could not have been more grateful to Lord Sutton for seeing it arranged in such a manner. Though she could better understand the sentiments that had led to Mary’s attempted flight now than ever before, Elinor feared that her courage would have failed her if _she_ had been required to take any great risk in order to see Christopher. 

As it happened, Elinor’s anxiety over her aunt was largely unfounded. When she arrived at Lady Rossington’s house, her aunt was perfectly civil, though not quite warm. Elinor had thought that they might eventually talk of Papa or Mama, or the rift between their families — or perhaps even of Christopher. Yet her aunt never broached any subject of consequence. Instead, Lady Rossington inquired who Elinor had met so far and made vague sounds of approval or disdain. When Elinor confessed to remembering no more names, Lady Rossington asked Elinor to read to her from _La Belle Asemblée_ while she embroidered. 

Eventually one of Lady Rossington’s friends, a Mrs. Taylor, came to call, and — seemingly heedless of Elinor’s presence — proceeded to lament her dissolute son-in-law, who had gotten into a terrible mess with a light-skirt. Elinor was astonished, and wondered whether married women often spoke in this manner when they were not constrained to protect the virtue of impressionable young ladies. She rather hoped so. 

Unfortunately, the remainder of Wednesday was far less entertaining than Mrs. Taylor’s sordid tale. Though Lady Rossington had a pianoforte, she did not play herself and professed to dislike most music. Having no better idea of how to fill the time, Elinor nevertheless decided to chance it. She tried no fewer than five compositions, none of which pleased her aunt. 

Elinor tried inquiring after the nature of the business that had taken Lord Rossington out of town, but her aunt laughed and admitted that she had never thought to ask — nor did she think _he_ would ever say. Lady Rossington said very little of her husband, but none of what she said suggested that there was any fondness between them. Elinor began to pity her aunt, who seemed to dislike most people, and could not even find comfort with her own husband. 

It rained on Thursday, so they could not promenade as they had intended. Elinor was beginning to grow desperate when she noticed the first volume of _Waverley_ sitting in the corner of the drawing room. She brought it eagerly to her aunt. 

“Do you mind if I read this aloud instead? I have read that it is a most remarkable work.”

“Are you fond of novels?” Lady Rossington asked, her brow furrowing. “Your papa used to turn his nose up at such… _scribblings_ , I think he once called them. Surely he forbade you to read them.”

“Did he?” Elinor asked, dismayed. “Mama told me that Papa was a snob when first she met him, though I did not believe her. I assure you, Papa came to love a novel as well as anybody! He gifted me _The Mysteries of Udolpho_ on my thirteenth birthday, though Mama protested that I was much too young for it.”

“Well, then,” her aunt replied, with the faintest smile. “ _I_ have already read it, more than once, but do not object to reading it again.”

They spent most of the day entertained by Edward Waverly and his exploits in the midst of the Jacobite uprising. Elinor was so absorbed in the tale that she was astonished when dinner was announced, though she knew she would be hard-pressed to distract herself in the hours to come. She usually had a healthy appetite, yet could not bring herself to eat, and started at every sound that might be mistaken for a knock at the door. 

“It will be some time yet,” Lady Rossington chided. “ _If_ he should even come.”

There was no more _Waverly_ after dinner. Elinor sat in the drawing room with her hands clutched in her lap, looking to the clock, then the door, then the window, and then the clock again. Her aunt embroidered all the while, and though Elinor said nothing to betray her anxiety — and indeed, nothing at all — Lady Rossington grew vexed. She asked whether Elinor would not prefer to play the pianoforte, rather than idle away her time. Elinor made a dutiful attempt, but her hands were trembling so violently that she stood up after one dissonant chord, and went back to the settee in silence.

Two excruciating hours passed in this manner. When the clock struck eight, Lady Rossington suggested that Elinor sit behind the embroidered screen in the corner of the room, so that the servant would not notice her and wonder at Lady Rossington meeting with a creditor in the presence of a young lady. Elinor suspected that her aunt must also want a reprieve from the sight of her. She could scarcely blame Lady Rossington — she knew her fretting must be tiresome, though she could not help it.

Elinor could see very little of the room from behind the screen and could no longer watch the clock. She knew not how much time had passed before the door to the drawing room finally opened. Someone spoke to Lady Rossington in a low voice, and though Elinor could not discern what they had said, she could hear her aunt’s response. 

“I suppose you must show the man in, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A weird little chapter, I know, but the next was getting so long that I wanted to break them up.


	22. Elinor XI

* * *

Elinor XI

* * *

Elinor’s heart was thundering in her chest as she waited for the door to open again. It did, soon enough, and she heard footsteps — _Christopher’s_ footsteps — before the door closed a second time. 

She peered out and saw that no servant remained. There was only Christopher and Lady Rossington, each regarding the other with interest.

“Hello, Aunt,” her brother greeted.

“Christopher,” Lady Rossington replied cordially, though she did not rise from her seat.

“I feared that I might be recognised by one of the servants who was with you when I last came to stay, though fortunately I saw no familiar faces.”

Lady Rossington gave a dry laugh. “You need not have worried. Servants are always coming and going here, for your uncle will not pay the wages offered by other aristocratic houses, and will attempt to bed any maid under fifty years of age. The only servant remaining from those days is my maid, who has been with me since I was a girl.”

“My uncle is the same as ever, I see,” Christopher remarked with a grimace. 

Elinor approached then, tentatively, for she saw that Christopher had not yet noted her presence. He turned with a start.

“Heavens, I did not see you there!” Christopher cried, clutching his chest. 

Elinor felt ashamed that his first sight of her was her lurking about as though she were a thief. This was not the impression she had wished to make. 

“I am sorry. I—”

But Christopher’s agitation disappeared at once and gave way to the most radiant smile.

“Nora!” he exclaimed. He closed the distance between them in a few strides and swept Elinor off her feet into a crushing embrace, spinning her around twice before setting her down. 

Elinor was unsteady on her feet and could scarcely breathe for her tears and laughter, and soon was so overcome that she doubled over, a hand clasped over her mouth. 

“That your brother has adopted the unrestrained manners of the continent cannot be helped, but _you_ are not required to do so, Elinor,” Lady Rossington observed with disapproval.

Elinor quickly sobered, though she nearly started laughing again when Christopher sent her a sidelong look of priggish dismay.

“Come now, Aunt — I know it is the English way, but what virtue can there be in concealing one’s joy?” asked Christopher, and bent to kiss Lady Rossington on the cheek.

She scowled, though Elinor observed that she was not entirely displeased. Elinor only looked to her aunt for a moment, however, for she could not get her fill of studying her brother. She had seen him at the ball, of course, but only at a distance.

Though Elinor was no longer a child, Christopher still seemed quite tall to her. He was well-proportioned and as handsome as he had been as a younger man, and she thought his tan complexion and fair hair a striking combination.

“You look so well, Christopher!” Elinor cried. 

“You are grown so very _brown_ ,” observed Lady Rossington, who apparently did not find his appearance as winsome as Elinor.

“Oh, Aunt, you will not credit the wonders I have seen. There is a miraculous orb which, in the Romance tongues, they call _‘el sol_ ,’ _‘il sole_ ,’ ‘ _le soleil_ ’ — perhaps you have heard it called by the name ‘sun.’ I know it is little heard of in this part of the world, but in the southern climes, it can be observed in all its brilliance in both June and December. It is quite a thing to behold!”

Elinor struggled to conceal a smile and Lady Rossington swatted Christopher’s arm.

“I see you are still a droll.”

“Humour is one’s best weapon against the misfortunes of life,” he rejoined cheerfully. 

“I had thought that _faith_ was the favoured weapon, but you must do as you see fit.”

“I always have done, Aunt,” Christopher replied.

“Indeed,” said Lady Rossington. “I will allow you two to speak now. I am afraid I cannot give you complete privacy, but I will not interrupt you — though you must be out by ten, Christopher, or the servants will begin to wonder.”

She took her embroidery basket and a candle and went to sit in the far corner of the drawing room. Elinor smiled at Christopher uncertainly and gestured towards the settee. He reclined back and folded his hands on his chest, and regarded her with an amused expression as she sat down on the edge of the cushion. 

“Well, then, Nora! You have gotten your way, with your indefatigable will and Lord Sutton’s considerable efforts. What have you to say for yourself?”

Elinor was so elated that she knew not where to begin. 

Finally, with a sheepish smile, she said, “I do not wish to disappoint you so early in our meeting, but I do not mind the name ‘Nora’ at all. I do not think I ever truly did.”

“You strike a bitter blow,” Christopher replied wryly. He seemed distracted, however, and his gaze was intent upon her face.

Elinor tilted her head inquisitively.

“I am sorry — I cannot help but stare. You look so very much like our mother.”

“So people say, though I am sure Mama is of the opinion that she was a far greater beauty in her day,” Elinor quipped.

“Even if that were true, _she_ would never for a moment believe it,” Christopher replied. 

His expression soon grew melancholic, and he hesitated before asking, “I wonder if you recall the three born between us?”

A shiver ran down Elinor’s spine, as often happened when she thought of her siblings who were stillborn, or had not survived infancy. “Of course I do — Michael, Georgiana, and Louisa. I have been to their graves many times.”

“Have you? I was not sure… Mother hated when we spoke of them around you.”

“Because she knew it scared me,” Elinor replied sheepishly. “Hearing about them made me think of death, and I became afraid that I might die, too. It is silly, I know, but I was easily frightened when I was small.”

“They were only ever ghosts to you. How could they be otherwise? I have some memory of them — of the girls, at least, bless them.” 

Though reflecting on the siblings she had lost no longer frightened Elinor, it nevertheless filled her with a profound sense of unease. They should have been older than her by several years, yet were now forever younger. She regretted the loss of them, naturally, and sometimes imagined what life would have been like with two older brothers _and_ two older sisters. Her chest would ache at the thought of what might have been, and all the companionship she might have enjoyed, yet Elinor knew she would never even begin to understand the grief that her parents had endured. She had never considered that this grief must weigh upon Christopher as well, though it was little wonder — he was the eldest and had lived through each loss. 

“I am being awfully morbid, aren’t I? All this is to say —”

“I understand,” Elinor answered. It was not difficult to suppose that her siblings might have grown to be more handsome, better natured and more accomplished than she, and of greater comfort to their parents. Yet only she remained. 

“I promise that I _have_ tried to be a good daughter, though no doubt I could have done better, and could do better still.”

Christopher stared, perplexed, before shaking his head furiously. “No, you misunderstand me. I would never presume to chastise you on that count, Elinor. I am sorry if I have upset you, but being here, seeing you... I so rarely allow myself to dwell upon it, but I cannot help but think of them all now, and of all our family has suffered. Mother and Father would have been glad of you under any circumstances, but to see how well you have grown… You are a wonder, Elinor — truly!”

Elinor’s throat grew painfully tight and she could not manage any response but a fervent nod. 

“Oh, please do not cry!” Christopher begged, and leaned forward to take her hands into his. “Nothing made Mother more cross than when I made you cry.”

“For once I shan’t tell on you,” Elinor replied, with a broken laugh. 

“How is she?” he asked, though he seemed almost to fear the answer.

“She is Mama. You know how she is: one’s outlook is a matter of choice, and she will not be overcome by anything. Papa’s death dealt a great blow to us both, but she has been so very strong.”

“She must worry. Father did not leave you very much to live on.”

“She does,” Elinor admitted. Though she had no wish to burden Christopher, she felt obliged to add, “She has worried, too, that you may marry and come back to claim the house. Things would be far more dire for us if we had to pay to let a place.”

Christopher looked stricken. “She truly thinks so little of me, to suppose that I would turn you out into the street?”

“No, I do not think she fears it in earnest,” Elinor replied. She regretted at once that she had mentioned it. “As strange as it may sound, I think that is Mama’s way of saying she hopes you _will_ come back. I do not think she can bring herself to speak of her wishes with regards to you without the pretense of them being practical concerns.”

She had hoped that her theory would comfort Christopher, but he only appeared saddened.

“The house is hers — and yours — for as long as either of you has need of it,” he insisted. “You cannot tell her that I have said so to you, but… If you do not seem to fear being turned out, perhaps she will not either.”

“I never feared it, Christopher,” Elinor assured him, though unease began to gnaw at her stomach. 

She had not known that Christopher expected that their meeting would be concealed from Mama. Elinor was adamant that Mama should know, and had intended to tell her upon her return to Darlington. By then, Elinor could readily assure her mother that many weeks had passed since she and Christopher had met and no harm had come of it. 

Yet Elinor had no idea whether Mama knew enough of the situation to understand that there was the possibility of danger. She hoped Mama had _some_ understanding, for she had a difficult time imagining herself explaining to Mama all that Lord Sutton had explained to _her_. 

“Christopher, if Mama thinks it possible that you may marry, does that mean she does not know... about you?” Elinor asked tentatively. 

“I do not believe she knows all that transpired, but she does know _that_ much of me,” Christopher replied, with a cheerless smile. “No doubt she hopes that I have changed.”

Elinor did not like to think that this was because Mama despised Christopher for what he was. It was just as likely that she wished it because it was the only way he could once again be a brother and son to them.

More than anything, Elinor did not wish to quarrel with Christopher during the little time they had, but she felt she must broach the matter of sharing all she had learned with Mama.

“Christopher, I do not think it right to keep this from Mama, and I do not think it was right that you and Papa wrote to one another all those years while keeping Mama and I in the dark,” she said, in a quiet but firm voice. “We may be the fair sex, but we are your family, too. We are not so weak as you may suppose.”

Christopher stared at her before shaking his head in wonderment.

“Christ, but you are sweet, Elinor,” he said, though he laughed bitterly. “You had the news from Lord Sutton, who has no scruples about vices of this nature, so it is little wonder that you lack perspective. What I am is unthinkable to most — grotesque, monstrous, an unconscionable sin. Mother did not _wish_ to know of my life. She could not bear it. And I will not have you ruining her peace.”

“Mama could not have said so!” Elinor cried. 

“You must allow that I know more of this matter than you,” replied Christopher shortly.

She shrank back at this. Mama had always been more exacting than Elinor’s father, but she never would have supposed that her mother was cold-hearted before this moment.

“How can you possibly wish her well?” Elinor asked in a small voice. 

Christopher rubbed his temple and sighed. “Because I cannot fault my mother for failing to hold exceptional views. I am sure you will not fault her, either, once you have been more in the world. You may very well come to share her opinion.”

“They are not so very ‘exceptional,’” Elinor insisted, furious at his insinuation. “Plato and Herodotus wrote of it, and Achilles and —”

“Good Lord, did Lord Sutton give you a primer on pederasty?” Christopher cried.

He saw her confusion at the term and shook his head. “Never mind. I cannot quite decide whether to thank his lordship or thrash him.”

“Why should you wish to thrash Sutton for treating me as the thinking person that I am?” Elinor retorted.

“Sutton?” Christopher rejoined, arching a brow.

She flushed, irritated that he was quibbling over forms of address when she was trying to speak to him about a matter of such gravity. “ _Lord_ Sutton, then. It seems to me that you will accept that Papa and Lord Sutton do not hate you because they are worldly men, but if _I_ do not hate you it must be because I am ignorant. Perhaps I _am_ — I admit to knowing nothing of these matters. Yet you dislike that Lord Sutton has informed me that men such as you have existed for millennia. Do you wish for me to learn to despise you? Will I cease to be ignorant _then_? Forgive me, but that is a lesson I have no wish to learn!”

Christopher stared at her again. He began to laugh, uncertainly at first, and then heartily. 

“It is a pity they do not allow women at the bar!” he cried, slapping his knee. 

Elinor was equal parts embarrassed by and pleased with her outburst, and shook her head at this praise. “I am only ever eloquent when angry.”

“That is one better than most barristers, who are ineloquent under all circumstances!”

“I _am_ serious, Christopher,” Elinor replied, frowning. 

He touched a hand to her face fondly. “Of course you are, dear girl. You know better than I what your opinions are. On the matter of our mother, however, you must defer to me. She must not know of this meeting, or that you have been told what happened. And you mustn’t blame her for my sake. Promise me.”

Elinor shook her head. “I cannot understand how, after losing three children, Mama would cast off one of the only two remaining to her!”

“She did not cast me off,” replied Christopher. “I told you — it was Father who insisted that I must either deny myself or leave Darlington permanently. I was already lost to her, Elinor. Even if she _were_ at peace with what I am, I could not remain. You believe that she ought to wish to correspond — even though she struggles to accept what I am, and when it is impossible for us to meet again? Does it not occur to you that this would only exacerbate her suffering?”

As an intellectual matter, Elinor could understand well enough, yet in her heart she felt it was unconscionable that Mama would forswear all communication with her only living son. 

“You need not like it, Elinor, but it is the way of things, and always shall be. If you castigate her for this, or treat her coldly, I will never forgive you. Do you understand me?”

Never in her life could Elinor recall seeing Christopher as grave as he was in this moment, nor his dark eyes as intense. She had no choice but to relent.

“I will not speak of it to her, I swear, and I will do my utmost not to betray my feelings. But the way things are between you and Mama need not be the way of things between you and I! You can write to me, as you once wrote to Papa.”

“I will think on it, Elinor,” Christopher replied, with a weary smile.

Elinor did not see what there was to think on, but understood that Christopher was extremely circumspect when it came to contact between them. She would not press him now. 

Christopher gave her hand an enthusiastic pat. “Come, no more of this. Tell me about yourself, Nora. I understand you persisted in your music lessons. I suppose they went far better when I was not about to distract you?”

Elinor was startled by the abrupt change of subject and could not help but laugh. “Yes, I did. How on earth did you know?”

“Your proficiency is the talk of the ton!” he declared.

Elinor sent him a dubious look. 

“Very well: it is the talk of Lord Sutton, who told me that you are ‘quite talented.’”

“How curious that he should mention that to you,” said Elinor, hoping she had not coloured.

“Not so very curious. I asked him for an account of you. It is curious, though, that it was the most he was willing to say.”

“That is not curious at all — why do you suppose he should be able to provide an account of _me_ ?” Elinor replied, studiously avoiding Christopher’s gaze. She did not trust herself not to betray… she did not know _what_ , precisely, but she could certainly rely upon herself to betray _something_ if she met his eye. 

“He must have a positive impression of you, or he would not have intervened.”

She glanced at Christopher’s face and saw his knowing expression. 

“You are already aware,” Elinor observed peevishly.

“I am as poor a liar as you are. Yes, he said something of it.”

Elinor flushed and looked into her lap with a scowl. “Then there is nothing else for _me_ to say on that subject. As for my life… I am terribly dull, Christopher. I have been nowhere and done very little. I want more than anything to hear about _yours_!”

He gave a hollow laugh. “I rather think the less I say of it the better.”

“No, you are wrong,” Elinor insisted. “You must know that I would not have pursued this meeting if I condemned you. I may not understand it, but you are my brother above all else. I would not wish for you to be anything other than you are.”

Christopher seemed astounded by this statement and turned his face away from her for a moment. Elinor worried that she had upset him, but when he faced her again he was smiling, though his dark eyes were terribly sad. 

“Oh, Christopher!” she cried, and rested her head against his shoulder while clutching his arm. “I will not pretend as though I have had to make a choice of the same magnitude as yours, but I once had to choose between telling a lie and my true feelings. I have at times regretted not telling the lie, but I know I would have been miserable, and would have condemned a good man to misery as well. I know it must be terribly difficult, but your unhappiness would be all the greater if you had chosen otherwise.”

He said nothing for a time and she could not bear to look at his face, for her heart broke for him. After a moment he cleared his throat and spoke. 

“You were referring to Lord Sutton’s friend, to whom you were almost engaged?” 

She released his arm and nodded. Though she felt the familiar pang that always accompanied thoughts of James, it was far less sharp than in days past. 

“Yes, Mr. Graham. I think you would have liked him very much, Christopher. One cannot help it.”

“You are still young, Elinor,” Christopher said with sympathy. “There is time enough for you to find happiness with another.” 

So everyone seemed to say, though Elinor felt that her time had all but run out. “I imagine I _will_ find someone. I do not have much of a choice in the matter. One can only hope he will be tolerable.”

Christopher chuckled at her response. Though she did not think her situation particularly amusing, she was glad that she had given him cause for mirth. 

“Forgive me — I am so much older than you, and have all but forgotten how tiresome it is to be twenty, and to be told that all will be well when it feels like nothing ever shall be. No doubt you feel that everything would fall into order, if only you had a husband. But you will find that life will go on in the usual fashion even after you have done… and there will be new trials and goals, and you will feel about them how you now feel about marriage, until they too pass... and on and on, until the end.”

Elinor studied his face, trying to puzzle out the deeper significance of his words. He did not appear sad anymore, but his words seemed to her so very bleak.

“You make life sound tedious, Christopher.”

He smiled at her the way he would when she was a child, and had asked a question that he found endearingly naïve. “I do not mean to — though of course it can be! But then, it is also exciting, is it not, to know that one can never predict what lies ahead? I say this only to give you perspective — to encourage you not to consider marriage something that you must achieve so that you may live the rest of your life in peace. It is only the start of your voyage. I hope you will find a better mate than one who is merely tolerable.”

Elinor did not doubt the wisdom of this counsel, but knew not what to do with it. It had not been so long ago that the only man with whom she could conceive of sharing her life was Mr. Graham, who was much more than tolerable. But Elinor now felt like she hardly knew him at all, and could not imagine who might take that place. Certainly it could not be any of the men she had met in town thus far, for she did not even like them so well as Lord Sutton, who… 

But Elinor could hardly say that she loathed, or even disliked Lord Sutton anymore. She doubted that her feelings could even be described as indifference. There was nothing peculiar about that — she _must_ like him, certainly, after all he had done for her. Any feeling person would. 

Their conversations at St. Paul’s Cathedral and the Royal Academy had been the most engaging of the many conversations Elinor had endured in town, but certainly that was only because she had learned news of her brother. Perhaps Lord Sutton _had_ displayed intelligence, compassion, and humour (an excess of the lattermost), but would that have been so remarkable to her if not for the subject matter? She did not think so. 

Yet there were also the letters they exchanged, which had scarcely even touched upon Christopher. Elinor had found each of them excessively diverting, and, as Mrs. Bristow observed, had rushed at once to pen her response.

Elinor was content to like Lord Sutton under the circumstances, but the possibility that she now liked him better than any other man deeply unsettled her.

“I think I have frightened you with all this talk of marriage and the trials of life,” Christopher observed, and Elinor realised that she must have been quiet for a while.

He _had_ frightened her, though not for the reason he supposed. 

“Your _actual_ voyages are of far greater interest to me in this moment,” she replied with forced cheer. “Will you not tell me where you have traveled, and how you have made your way all this time?”

“Heavens, how long have we?”

Christopher told her then of how he had gone to the continent after Papa issued his ultimatum, with no firm plans for the future. He had been in Venice, trying to distract himself from his misfortune by drawing the canals and Piazza San Marco and drinking a great deal of wine, when he met a prosperous Spanish wool trader named Domingo Asturias.

“Our relationship was not of _that_ kind, but was the most meaningful of my life,” Christopher said. “He was everything to me — saviour, mentor, father figure, and friend.”

Despite the enmity between their nations, the two men became close, and Domingo persuaded Christopher to return with him to Spain as an apprentice of sorts. Christopher remained there for years, and with time progressed from apprentice to valued partner.

In addition to Spain, Christopher had traveled to Italy, of course, as well as Portugal, France, and Greece. He spoke fluent Spanish, serviceable Italian and Portuguese, and very poor French, though he maintained that he could do well enough with written French. To his dismay, he discovered that the Ancient Greek he had learned as a schoolboy did precious little to ease his way in Greece.

Christopher was reluctant to say much of Lord Penhall, but told Elinor that he had met the earl several years prior in Rome, and had remained in contact ever since. But Christopher stayed on with Domingo until his death, which occurred not long after their father’s. Domingo’s brother, who was not fond of Christopher, took over Domingo’s interest in the business, and Christopher did not have the will or the patience to continue on. Christopher sold his interest and decided to return to England, though he knew not for how long he intended to stay. He had now been in London for several months, and was beginning to grow restless. 

“And that is that,” Christopher concluded, with a sigh. “I will have wasted all of our time with my rambling!” 

“Not at all, Christopher — and I am so very sorry,” Elinor replied, with a strange feeling of disquiet. “I cannot imagine how difficult it must have been for you to lose both Papa and Mr. Asturias in so short a time. I wish I had known him!”

Elinor was grateful for all she had learned, yet felt like even more of a stranger to Christopher now. She saw from the tender manner in which he spoke of Domingo that the man had meant more to her brother than even Papa, and she had never even had the opportunity to meet him. She should be glad to learn that Christopher had lived a full and rich life apart from them, and _was_ , but she could not help but regret the closeness they had lost, which now seemed irredeemable.

If Christopher felt the same, he did not betray it. 

“Now that I have told you how things have been with me, I must insist you tell me _something_ of your life, and how things have been with all your friends at home,” he said. “How is little Mary, and Phoebe, and that miscreant, Tom? Is he still terrified of Mother?”

Elinor was touched that Christopher remembered them all. She cheerfully told him that Tom and Phoebe were wed, and expecting a child, and that, even though he was now grown, Tom was _still_ wary of Mama. Elinor told him, too, how Mary continued to be her closest friend, and spoke of all that had transpired with Mr. Curtis. Elinor confessed that she feared that Mary would now marry Mr. Vernon, and how she worried that she might lose Mary to her new friends, the Vernons. 

It struck Elinor that her problems must seem so inconsequential next to Christopher’s, but he listened intently, and responded with what appeared to be sincere joy and dismay. He encouraged Elinor to share her concerns with Mary — many difficulties in his own life might have been avoided if he had merely given voice to his feelings. 

Elinor assured him that she had, to some extent, and would do so more forthrightly in the future. 

“May I also inquire as to what happened with your Mr. Graham?” Christopher asked. 

Elinor straightened and did her best not to appear disconcerted by the question. “I thought you knew.”

“I know Lord Sutton interfered in some manner, nothing more,” he replied. 

“I owe him a great deal for bringing us together,” Elinor said, after considering her words for some time. “I do not wish to repay his generosity by saying something that would embarrass him.”

Christopher leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and fixed Elinor with a grave look. “I know that he is in love with you, Elinor. That is plain enough. What has he said of it to you?”

“Nothing — very little. Nothing the least bit romantic. He did not mean to interfere — with Mr. Graham, that is. He only wished to explain himself and his conduct to his friend. He had been… quite rude to me in the past. He has no wish to marry me, or anyone else. I believe that all this — all he has done for me — is simply his way of atoning.”

Her response was far from coherent, but Christopher did not question any part of it.

“Please be on your guard,” he said.

“I have no hopes or expectations,” Elinor insisted. 

“But _he_ may,” Christopher observed, with a consequential look. 

“I know that he is considered a rake,” she replied impatiently, “but you must allow that that cannot possibly be what he is after with _me_.”

“He has assured me it is not, yet if the opportunity were to arise…”

“It never would!” Elinor cried. 

Christopher covered her hand with his own. “I believe he was sincere when he said that was not his intention. As I said, I merely wish to put you on your guard. Men of his station are accustomed to getting what they want. His nobler intentions may succumb to baser instincts.”

Elinor withdrew her hand, tears stinging her eyes. “I think you misjudge us both, Christopher. I do not care to hear any more about this.”

Christopher sent her a pitying look. “I do not wish to make you unhappy, Nora, nor suggest that you do not know what is proper. I have had little opportunity to act as an older brother to you, but feel I must take advantage of what time we have.”

His tone was heartfelt, and Elinor could not deny that his counsel was fair, as much as she resented the suggestion that she would do wrong — and that Lord Sutton would attempt to induce her to do so. Elinor saw that Christopher had more he wished to say, and nodded reluctantly at him to proceed. 

“You have lived among a narrow set, and have had the good fortune of being able to trust the men you have known. Of course you _know_ that not all men are worthy of one’s trust, but it is not always easy to identify those who are not. Often the least trustworthy of men will present themselves the most persuasively as friends, and even those who once had pure intentions may use one to their own end when the opportunity arises. I have been in the broader world over ten years now, and have misjudged others more times than I care to admit, though I do not generally count myself a fool. Nor do I consider _you_ a fool.”

“You are right to caution me,” Elinor conceded. “It is childish to resent your good counsel when you know much more of the world than do I. I suppose it appealed to my vanity, believing that a man of his station could bear a genuine love for _me_.”

Christopher smiled. “I do not mean to suggest that he does not. Indeed, by all accounts, what you have accomplished is unprecedented!”

“I do not count it an accomplishment,” Elinor replied, though she was ashamed to realise that perhaps she _did_. “I did nothing with the intention of enticing Lord Sutton. I might just as soon consider breathing an accomplishment.”

“I would have less cause for concern if triumph were all that you felt,” said Christopher. “I suspect you are not merely flattered and grateful for his intercession, though I do not expect you to tell me so.”

“What do you mean?” Elinor demanded. Surely it was not possible that _she_ had betrayed any sort of attachment! 

“Do not trouble yourself about it,” Christopher replied. “What you ought to believe, above whatever else Lord Sutton has said to you, is that he has no intention of marrying. Do not allow yourself to believe that his view on that has altered until the banns are read.”

This was a step too far. 

“Of course that day will not come!” 

“I expect not,” Christopher replied with a chuckle. “I weary of speaking of Lord Sutton, don’t you? Let’s have a more cheerful subject before we part.”

“Must we?” Elinor cried.

But she observed that Lady Rossington was watching them impatiently and glanced at the clock on the mantle — it was already five past ten. 

“You prefer to continue to speak of Lord Sutton?” Christopher jested.

“You know what I meant,” protested Elinor.

“The servants will begin to wonder if the man who came to collect a debt ends up staying well into the night.”

Elinor’s throat began to constrict painfully and she had the desperate urge to grab hold of Christopher and never let go. “It isn’t fair.”

“No, it isn’t, but we knew how things stood before we chose to meet. Can we not be glad of the time we have had?”

Elinor wished that she could be, but in this moment all she felt was misery. “I have missed you, Christopher, and I will miss you even more so now!”

“Dear Nora,” he murmured, and drew her close.

“I hate being poor,” Elinor said, turning her face into Christopher’s chest. “I hate that I must worry constantly about respectability. If I had any wealth, I would see you, no matter what others thought of it!”

“You might have had, if not for our grandfather,” Christopher observed, stroking her hair. 

“Wretched man,” Elinor replied, smiling despite herself. “One should not speak ill of the dead, but he might have spared a thought for his eventual grandchildren.”

“My sweet fool.”

“I swear I am not so always,” said Elinor. “It is only because I am with you, and do not feel obliged to be sensible.”

She released him from their embrace and drew away, for she wanted the chance to study his face again.

Her dear, handsome Christopher — so like Papa, in some ways, and yet entirely his own man. How he had suffered — but how he had flourished, too! She envied him his freedom, even as she bitterly regretted that he had been forced to make his way in the world without the support of his family. And now he was to be lost to her again!

“I am honoured you do not feel the need to pretend with me,” said Christopher. He rose, then, and bent to kiss her forehead. “Be well, Nora.”

Lady Rossington rose, too, and came to see Christopher out. They exchanged some words in low voices that Elinor could not hear. It was all happening too quickly — Elinor was sure that she ought to make a speech, if this was to be the last she and Christopher saw of one another, but she knew not what to say.

“You know where I am staying in town, don’t you, if you should wish to write?” Elinor asked feebly, finally forcing herself to her feet. 

Christopher exchanged a look with Lady Rossington and nodded. He hesitated, but his aunt touched his arm. 

“It is time for you to be going,” she said firmly. 

Christopher met Elinor’s eye one last time, then followed Lady Rossington out of the room.

Elinor could not account for it, but she felt an eerie sense of calm in the moments that followed. She could not yet believe that this was to be all she and Christopher would ever say to one another. 

Lady Rossington rested a hand on Elinor’s shoulder when she returned. 

“Now that it is done, I wonder if you will be sorry that you insisted upon it,” she said. There was no sympathy in her tone, but Elinor thought she noticed a hint of sorrow in her aunt’s light eyes. 

Elinor shrugged her shoulders helplessly in response. She did not know yet, either. 

That night, Elinor lied awake, trying to commit every word and expression of Christopher’s to memory. Perhaps it was too soon to say, but she did not think she would come to regret their meeting, even though she felt as though something inside of her had been torn asunder. How could she be sorry to have learned of Domingo Asturias, the great love and comfort of her brother’s life? And it brought her some consolation to think that Christopher was not alone — that both his dearest friend and Papa must be watching over him. 

Though she was not often one to pray, Elinor offered her deepest gratitude to God for Domingo and the kindness he had shown Christopher. She prayed, too, that she would have the strength to fulfill her promise to Christopher to never betray her anger towards Mama.

  
And before she fell asleep at last, Elinor even offered up a small prayer for Lord Sutton — that he be rewarded for all he had done for her, even if he _was_ an unrepentant sinner. She hoped, however, that he was not such a sinner as Christopher imagined.


End file.
